


Storm's End Cruise

by AsbestosMouth, bex_xo, Jillypups, sarahcakes613, SassyEggs, SnowWhiteKnight, swimmingfox, vanillacoconuts, ZoeSong



Series: The Baratheon Brothers Present [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chet Baker, Coconuts, F/M, M/M, Multi, Podrick and Gendry get mixed up a lot, Set in modern Westeros, Tags Subject to Change, The Baratheon Brothers Present, Threesome - F/M/M, Titanic refrences, You Have Been Warned, a lot of smut, add as we go, co op fic writing, come and join us, crackships, cruise fic, cruise ship au, fic writing insanity, here we go again, hot pie makes the best eclairs, lemoncakes, nature themed erotica, nightmare cruises, piano repertoire, pot brownies, things about to get out of control, you'll never look at a clam the same way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 61,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/pseuds/bex_xo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/pseuds/sarahcakes613, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowWhiteKnight/pseuds/SnowWhiteKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacoconuts/pseuds/vanillacoconuts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeSong/pseuds/ZoeSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Robb Stark and Myrcella Baratheon get engaged there is only one choice: a destination wedding aboard the Storm's End cruise ship owned and captained by Myrcella's uncle Stannis. Stannis runs a tight ship, but with some of the people he has working for him, that proves almost daily to be a near impossibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #AWedding

**Author's Note:**

> chapter written by paperflowercrowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Picset by ZoeSongs  
> [](http://imgur.com/SleCm8F)  
>   
>   
>   
> 

For the life of him Theon could hardly understand why exactly Robb and Myrcella were having a second wedding ceremony.  
  
Wasn't the first one good enough?  
  
He had been there with the rest of the Stark family and most of the Baratheons and Lannisters when Robb and Myrcella had knelt beneath the Heart Tree in the Godswood at Winterfell not even a month ago, honoring the Old Gods with the “happy union” (or whatever Sansa had gone on about...) and getting himself nearly black out drunk with Mrs. Stark's good wine that was in well abundance at the banquet afterwords.  
  
It had been a nice affair, he supposed, not that he really knew much about weddings. A quiet event with only a handful of guests outside of the immediate families present and Robb and Myrcella seemed to have the time of their lives that night.  
  
Two days later Theon had woken up to his cell phone going off and a very angry Robb Stark on the other end.  
  
_“That gods forsaken woman has gone too far with this. Our marriage is perfectly binding in Westeros and she knows it. To even suggest that we have a second ceremony is absurd!”_ His best mate ranted into the phone, and considering that he was still probably a little stoned from the joint he smoked a few hours ago, Theon was a little more than confused.  
  
“Hold on. What the fuck are you talking about Robb? What woman?” Theon mumbled into the line, wiping the grit of a few hours of sleep fro his eyes.  
  
“Cersei Lannister. Or Baratheon. Or whatever the hells she is calling herself today. She called Cella last night insisting that we have a second ceremony at a Sept, some bullshit excuse that the Faith could overlook our marriage and consider any of our children illegitimate. Cella has been a mess all night mate.”  
  
“So... why are you calling me about this? I mean, I love you and Myrcella and all, but isn't this something you could talk to with your parents or sisters? Hell even Jon would be better at this shit than I am bro.”  
  
“We're getting married, again, in three weeks at the Sept in Lannisport. Robert offered to pay for the families and wedding party to take a two week cruise on his brother Stannis' cruiseship if we agreed to do what Cersei wanted. So I'm asking you to be my best man, you get a free vacation out of it.” Robb explained.  
  
“Well, let me check my schedule.” Theon half jokes. Robb does not seem to be amused.  
  
“Fuck man. You don't work or anything, not since they gave you disability because of your back. You sit around that apartment of yours smoking pot and drinking shitty beer.”  
  
“It's medical marijuana and I have the proper paper work to receive it. You're just pissy that your wife doesn't like you smoking it with me.” Theon laughs.  
  
Robb sighs. “You in or not man? I need to know so I can give a headcount to Robert. Or well, Robert's assistant I guess.”  
  
“You bet your sweet ass I'm in. Free vacation courtesy of one of the richest men in Westeros? Hells yeah bro.”  
  
“Good. You'll be escorting Arya, Myrcella is asking her to be the maid of honor. Sansa is the other bridesmaid, and Jon will be escorting her. I'll shoot you a text about the tux and shit when Cella gets it figured out. Oh and, no funny business. Stannis Baratheon is a consummate professional and wont deal with any of your shenanigans on his cruise ship.” Robb tells him and Theon can practically hear his eyes rolling in his head.  
  
“Aye aye, Captain. Anything else you want to warn me about?”  
  
“Other than my mother wanting to strangle Cella's mother? No, not that I can think of.”  
  
“Well shit man, this is gonna be a damn good cruise.”  
  
Of course that was before he actually got the wedding.  
  
Cersei Lannister had gone a bit over board with the whole thing, the Sept decorated in ornate gold vases with crimson roses, crystal chandeliers hanging from every available space on the ceiling and an over powering amount of incense burning in front of the alters of the Seven. None of it seemed like anything Robb and Myrcella would pick out themselves, but he supposes they did not have all that much say when it came to Cersei planning the wedding.  
  
He had ever so dutifully shown up in Lannisport early yesterday morning, ready for a rehearsal and then a dinner, and maybe a quick joint at the after party Sansa had planned for the rest of the wedding party.  
  
Instead he dealt with final tux fittings, the reminder that he would need to give a speech at the reception, and some random bar chick throwing up all over his shoes while he was trying to make out with her.  
  
Not exactly the start of a damn good cruise.  
  
Not even the start of a mediocre cruise if you were to ask him.  
  
This morning had been a blur. Robb was a nervous wreck, which was surprising because he was technically already married to Myrcella. Jon had tried to talk some sense into him, but ended up calling in reinforcements. Which meant the joint Theon had tucked into his jacket pocket was staying in his jacket pocket while Ned Stark kept Robb from running out of the Sept.  
  
Somehow they managed to pull themselves together to get to the front of Sept before the string quartet Cersei had insisted on began to play.  
  
“Hey man, this is going to go great. Just stay calm and wait for your girl. Again,” Theon leans over and whispers into Robbs ear when the doors open and a smiling Sansa comes walking down the aisle.  
  
“Thanks, bro,” Robb whispers back before turning his focus onto Arya trying to not trip her way to the front of the sept in the heels Myrcella (Cersei more likely) had picked out for the bridesmaids.  
  
There was a sudden and swift change in the music, a wedding march vaguely familiar from the handful of weddings Theon had attended before, and the next thing he knew Myrcella had appeared at the archway with her father, who was surprisingly sober (for now), a vision in white lace and crimson roses in her hands.  
  
When Robb didn't run away, throw up or faint, Theon could tell the rest of the wedding would go off without a hitch.  
  
  
The damned wedding went off without a hitch, despite her best efforts to sabotage the whole thing. It was highly ridiculous to even proclaim that in the eyes of the Faith her darling daughter would not be fully married to that... that... that Stark man she so boldly proclaimed to love.  
  
“Love, what does Myrcella know about love? She's only a child. Robb Stark is not the first man she has claimed to love, there was that one fellow in high school... Tristan? Tristopher? Oh what does it even matter.” Cersei muttered to herself while sipping her second, or was it third, glass of wine for the night.  
  
She was certain the Starks would see right through her façade, telling their eldest son not to worry about the Faith and that the wedding in front of that stupid tree of theirs was more than enough, but she had apparently hit a sore spot between the couple that Cersei hadn't even been fully aware of.  
  
Her sources told her that Catelyn Stark had wanted a double ceremony herself, since Robb had been raised in both the Old and New faiths and that she had come to blows with Eddard about the whole thing until Robb and Myrcella had proclaimed they only wanted the traditional Northern tree ceremony. The unexpected support of Catelyn Stark when Cersei had brought her “concerns” to the attention of the newlyweds was not unwelcomed, just unexpected.  
  
So she had to find other ways to sabatoge the day.  
  
First she had insisted on the red and gold color scheme, bright and bold, whereas Myrcella had wanted lilac and ivory, muted but romantic.  
  
Next she had “accidentally” ordered roses when Myrcella wanted orchids. Her dear daughter had simply smiled and shrugged it off, agreeing that it would look much better with the red and gold anyway.  
  
The last attempt was with the dress. Cersei had picked out a creation so over the top, with layers upon layers of white organza, pick ups, and beading that Myrcella looked like a cupcake when she originally tried it on. The tears Cersei had manged to fake had almost sealed the deal, before that damned sales girl had brought out the simple lace dress with the keyhole back that caused Myrcella to fall to pieces.  
  
So here she sits, next to her boar of an ex husband, who is sloppily drunk at this point, on Stannis Baratheon's cruise ship drinking her third, no fourth, glass of wine.  
  
The toasts are being made and everyone in the grand ballroom seems to be floating on air.  
  
Everyone but Cersei herself that is.  
  
Instead she wallows in self pity, her middle child married and the prospects of becoming a grandmother looming in the air. She is too young to be a grandmother, too young and too beautiful yet to be anything but someones trophy wife. Not that she had been a trophy wife for many years, most men referring to her as a cougar these days (she prefers lioness).  
  
Somewhere after the toasts and the meal was placed in front of her, after the first dance and cutting of the cake, Cersei had managed to drink an entire bottle of wine, or was it two bottles of wine? Not that it mattered, there was plenty more where that came from.  
  
Cersei wasn't quite sure, but somehow she had managed to find herself over at the DJ booth, discussing karaoke tracks and settling on one of her all time favorites, _If I Could Turn Back Time_ by none other than the queen herself, Cher. Myrcella used to love singing that song with her in the car when she was a child, and it only seemed fitting that Cersei serenade the happy couple at their wedding.  
  
The music starts and all at once all eyes are on her.  
  
  
Theon is going to need another drink to get through the rendition of the Cher song Cersei is screeching out.  
  
If you were to ask him, she sounded like a dying seagull, but that simply could have been from the four bottles of wine the woman had downed since getting on the ship a few hours ago.  
  
The jack and coke in his hand was nearly empty, and the line at the bar was far too long for his liking. He did have a back up plan of course, a secret stash that he had hid in a plant when he loaded his belongs onto the docked ship in the morning.  
  
A dozen or so pot brownies, individually wrapped in cellophane and calling his name at this very moment.  
  
Getting them was a feat among itself, the ballroom crawling with Starks and Lannisters, Baratheons, Tyrells, every single one of them trying to talk to him when all he wanted was his damn brownies.  
  
Finally. Finally he had made it to the exact spot he had placed his prized possessions, under a thin layer of dirt and ivy. All he needed to do was to dig a little under the dirt and they would be there, ready for the taking and oh how Theons mouth watered at the thought of them.  
  
Until he felt a petite hand tap him on the shoulder. A oddly familiar petite hand.  
  
“Yes Arya?” He says without even turning around, he knew it was the youngest Stark sister.  
  
“I think these are what your looking for.” She says, her voice low and conspirical.  
  
Theon whirls around to see his pot brownies stacked nicely upon a tray, Rickon Stark standing behind Arya with a shit eating grin placed on his face.  
  
“Where did you get those?” He asks, feeling rather impatient when Rickon pulls the tray away and Arya stands protectively in front of her little (larger) brother.  
  
“Exactly where I saw you put them. And you're not getting them back. Robb will kill you if you're high the whole trip.”  
  
“I'll have you know it's medicinal marijuana and I have all the legal rights to it. You however, have no medical reasons to have it, making it illegal.”  
  
“Yeah well, Robb won't care if Rickon and I are a little bit stoned during this trip. Honestly he probably won't even notice a little bit. Be happy though, I am leaving you with exactly one parting gift, a single wrapped brownie all your own.”  
  
“I have more pot in my cabin than you have in those brownies you know.”  
  
Arya smiles again, grey eyes twinkling with mischief.  
  
“Which is why Rickon snuck into your cabin earlier today. So you can take the pot brownie I offer you right now, or you can go without for the next two weeks. Your call dude.”  
  
“Give me the damn brownie.” Theon says holding out his hand to Arya, who smiles brightly as she places the celllophane package in his out stretched fingers.  
  
“Pleasure doing business with you.” Arya says as Rickon faux salutes him before turning around with the plate of pot filled morsels.  
  
_“Someone on this damn boat better have some more pot to sell”_ is all he thinks while sliding the single brownie into the pocket of his tux and making his way back towards the reception.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, if anyone else is interested in joining in on the fun just let us know!


	2. #LiterallytheBestShipEver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Jillypups

First Mate Davos strides down the portside deck, glancing at his watch on his left hand as he holds his phone to his ear in his right. The reception has been going on for a couple of hours now, and his husband the Captain has asked him to pop in and check on the festivities and to send his warmest – read: tepid – congratulations to his brother’s family. But right now they’re discussing ships.

“They call it ‘shipping,’ Stannis. I saw it on- well, I mean, Shireen’s laptop was open a few weekends ago when she was visiting and I caught a glimpse of some blogging site.”

Now is not the time to admit that he’s had his own Tumblr for two months now, and that Shireen was over a couple of weeks ago to help customize it. TMNT code she called it, or some other such gibberish. Whatever it’s called, he loves it. He was up until three in the morning posting pictures of docked sailboats and Rick x Michonne from _The Walking Dead,_ and only stopped when Shireen messaged him and said he made a pretty good looking Michonne.

“While I’m proud that she’s interested in the nautical realm of professional possibility, I do wish she’d call it _sailing._ Shipping is for products. Which, by the way, are typically sent by truck.”

Davos sighs. He hasn’t seen Stannis since seven that morning, over twelve hours ago. On such a large ship, often times phone conversation is the only way to connect throughout the day. But it sure doesn’t help when he needs to grab Stannis by the shoulders and give him a shake.

“Shipping means romance, as in a _relation_ ship. Which is what Shireen and I were discussing from _The Walking Dead._ I’m a fan of Richonne, and she’s a huge Glenn and Maggie fan. I can’t remember if they have a ship name.” #Glaggie?

“The HMS Ridiculous?”

“Very funny, dear,” Davos says, stepping out of the way just in time before Ilyn Payne comes barreling out of a connecting corridor, pushing his masseuse’s table like it’s a hospital gurney.  Thank the Seven there’s not a body on it. “Payne, slow down man, we are on a _literal_ pleasure cruise right now. Take your time, enjoy the sights, try not to terrify the guests?”

Ilyn grunts and slows it down, giving him a bug-eyed stare as they pass by. Davos shudders in his whites.

“Excellent use of ‘literal,’” Stannis says, his clipped tone momentarily warmed.

Davos does not tell him that he _also_ ‘liked’ and reblogged several grammar posts his son Devan sent to him as a joke. _We’ll see who laughs last,_ he thinks. Devan’s blog is a literal nightmare of typos. No, wait, figurative. Well, to _Stannis_ it’d be literal.

“Listen, Stannis, I’m here, so I’ll let you go. I’ll spend twenty minutes here, maximum, before heading back. Any requests? Champagne and strawberries? Dark chocolate and wine?”

“Please, for pity’s sake, I’m running this ship. The last thing I need is to be addled in any way.”

“Tea and scones?”

“You read my mind, thank you Davos. You’re a true First Mate, through and through.”

“But what if there are no scones? This is Robert and Cersei’s function. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s nothing but chicken wings and bottles of chilled vodka.”

“Oh, surprise me. Something sweet with some caffeine on the side. But Davos?”

“Yes?”

“Chicken wings don’t sound _bad._ ”

Davos chuckles as he hangs up the phone, gazing at the selfie photo he took of the two of them, sunset in the harbor, a glass of Arbor Gold in each of their hands. There’s almost a smile on both of their faces. It was taken on their 20th anniversary; he still has fond, warm, slightly naughty memories of it.

His distracted gazing is why he is so dumbstruck by the bursting open of the banquet doors right in front of him, and he staggers backwards in time to catch a fleeing young woman who can barely walk in her high heels, let alone run, which she’s trying to do with a tray of brownies in her hand.

“Son of a _bitch,_ ” she says as first the tray and then her entire face collide into Davos’s chest, and there is a metallic gonging clang as the tray clatters to the floor, a scatter of mess as about a dozen wrapped brownies go flying across the carpeted, indoor section of the deck.

“Young lady, I beg your pardon,” Davos says, winded enough to regret cutting back on treadmill time at the gym, though he covers it up by dusting off the lapels of his white coat. He’s relieved to see there’s no chocolate stains on it or on his brass buttons.

“Shit, Arya, that’s the fuckin’ Captain,” a tall young man behind her says after jogging up and dragging her back. “That’s Cella’s _uncle_ ,” he says, steadying her as she takes off her shoes.

He has half a mind to go along with the mistaken identity, to really let these two shake in their boots, but impersonating the Captain wouldn’t be right. Hells, it would be borderline mutiny.

“I’m one of Cella’s uncles but I am not the Captain. I am, however, First Mate here,” he says, standing up straight as he looks down his nose at them. But It’s hard to be stern with them; they’re around Shireen’s age, and the sight of them having fun at her cousin’s wedding makes him desperately hope his stepdaughter is enjoying herself too.

But then he sees the _Storm’s End_ insignia on the tray. Davos snorts with indignation.

“Are you trying to _steal_ from this ship?” he says incredulously, squatting down to snatch the tray.

“No, no, no, no, oh gods, no, Captain- I mean, Your Mate ser,” the young woman named Arya stammers. “Not from the _ship,_ ser, not at _all._ Rickon, _help_ me for fuck’s sake.”

“We were definitely _not_ stealing from the ship, ser,” the auburn haired young man says with a solemn shake of his head, as this Rickon man clasps his hands behind his back and stands there, regal as a Septon.

“Then you’re stealing from the Captain’s brother’s wedding reception?”

Rickon’s jaw drops open.

“That’s what I thought,” Davos says as he stands, tray in one hand as he stoops and walks around, picking up the brownies and dropping them on the tray. “Now, why don’t you two go back inside and try to stay out of trouble. Ah ah, young lady, you hand that over to me,” he says, snatching the brownie from her hand so quickly she drops the high heel that was dangling from her thumb. “Back inside with you both, now, before I tell Robert _and_ Cersei what you’ve been up to,” because never has a threat gone over quite so well as when Robert’s wife is mentioned.

“But wait, ser, those brownies—”  Rickon starts, reaching out towards the tray.

“Just skip it, Ric,” Arya says, glancing up at Davos with a look like a wild cat. “He’s uh, I bet he’ll just throw them away, now that they’ve fallen on the floor. No one would want to eat floor brownies, right?”

“Naturally,” Davos says with a sniff, even though standing there in his formal attire with a tray full of dessert makes him feel sort of like Thomas from _Downton Abbey._ #Misunderstood. #ButStillKindOfADick. #CarsonRules.

But when the two of them slink back into the banquet hall, wincing as some woman bellows out Cher lyrics like a cow dying in a field, Davos grins. Because one, he got the perfect treat for his sweet tooth husband. Two, he didn’t even have to circle the room and say his hellos. Three, there’s enough dessert on this tray to last his husband the whole trip, and a sated Stannis is a happy Stannis. Davos almost, _almost_ opens one of them to enjoy on the long walk back to the bridge, but the idea of showing up with chocolate smeared all over his white coat is enough of a turn off to just skip it. Plus, he’d have to unwrap them with his teeth.

**Shireen:** Hey! I thought I saw you at the door but then you left.

**Davos:** Running an errand back to your dad

**Shireen:** You should come back! I met a really cool guy and I want you to meet him. He LOVES TWD and he ships Caryl but only as friends.<3<3<3<3

**Davos:** I’m sure he’s wonderful Shir! You have a nice night I’m sure you can introduce me later we’ll be at sea for two weeks

**Shireen:** Okay, fine :P

“Knock, knock,” he says fifteen minutes later, presenting the tray alongside a pitcher of iced tea he swiped from Renly’s bar as he strides onto the bridge with his arms outstretched.

Stannis’s shoulders slump with relief.

“Thank you. Jorah and Sam just came in here begging to do a deep sea fish side launch only one day’s journey out, Edd says some little cretin named Theon set fire to one of the displays in his gift shop, and _somehow_ Cersei managed to wrangle a walkie-talkie from one of our employees and has been telling me to turn this piece of shit ship around so her daughter can go marry a real man. A piece of shit, Davos. She called her a piece of _shit._ ”

“Here,” Davos says, frowning with concern as he sets down the tray and pitcher and unwraps a brownie. “Here, you can’t have your favorite single malt scotch but you _can_ have a dessert. I saw your Fitbit, Stannis, you walked 15,000 steps yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Stannis says with a sort of pinched, constipated look on his face that means his pride has truly been wounded. “A piece of shit ship, though.”

“She’s literally the worst,” Davos says with a small grin and sidelong glance as he comes to stand by his Captain. #FirstMateFirstLove

Stannis rolls his eyes as he takes a deep, contemplative bite of his brownie.

“Literally.”


	3. #NOTENOUGHLIFEBOATS!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by vanillacoconuts. This is pure craziness from my end…
> 
>  [](http://imgur.com/pYebBJF)  
>   
>  _picset by ZoeSong_  
>   
>   
> 

“SIR DAVOS!”

Davos is walking along the deck of the ship, enjoying the warm breeze and the salty scent of the ocean, when he hears his name called. He turns around to see a young man running up to him. As he gets closer he sees that is one of the ship’s crew members, and he is looking worried and frantic, and quite out of breath. Davos starts walking towards the man.

“Everything alright, young man?”

The man holds a hand over his chest and breathes deeply for a moment, trying to catch his lost breath. “Sir Davos, Captain Stannis is demanding you go to him. He says it’s an emergency; even threatened to throw me overboard if I didn’t find you soon.”

“Right, where is he?”

A very confused look forms on the man’s face as he says, “At the very front of the ship, Sir, at the bow.”

This is odd. And concerning. Davos turns his back on the crew member and heads off speed walking toward where Stannis wants him. _This better be serious. He was in such a good mood last night and this morning, must be all that sugar in those brownies_ _…_

He reaches his destination and what Davos sees makes him stop in his tracks. At the tip of the ship, the Captain stands there with a pair of binoculars looking out towards the horizon. This is not the captain's job, this is what they have crew members for, the look outs.

“Stannis, you—”

“DAVOS, my sweet love, do you see any icebergs?”

“I-what!?”

“Icebergs! I don’t want my ship to hit an iceberg.”

“Stannis… there are no icebergs in this area. You know this. Are you feel—”

His husband spins around so fast it startles Davos. Stannis slowly moves the binoculars away from his face, and faces Davos with a very scared expression. Stannis whispers something so quiet that his words seem to get blown away with the wind. Davos gives him a look to tell him he didn’t hear his words.

“…boats…do we have enough lifeboats for all the people? I need to…I need to warn everyone to grab a door.”

_Grab a door? WHAT!?_ Davos opens his mouth to answer his question but no words come out, he doesn’t know what is going on with Stannis, he is not his usual self at all. His husband is never a worried man, always calm and collected, but here in this moment he looks as if he truly believes his ship is going to sink.

He is about to try again and ask the Captain if he is feeling alright, but again does not get a word out of his mouth because Stannis moves behind Davos and before he knows it Stannis has tied a necklace around Davos’s neck.

“I call it the Heart of the Ocean.”

“Stannis, this is macaroni.”

“I know, it’s beautiful.”

Lifting his hand up to his face, Davos rubs his face for a moment, trying to take in all that is happening. He finally gets it though.

“Titanic,” Davos states.

“Yes. I love that movie. I watched it three times while you slept last night.”

“You hate that movie. And what are you humming?”

Stannis had started to hum a tune into Davos ear as he was talking. And after a moment, Davos recognises it as _My Heart Will Go On._ A moment later again, Davos feels his arms being lifted into the air.

_What am I doing? I can_ _’t believe I_ _’m going along with this_ _…_

After what feels like hours Stannis finally stops and Davos takes this moment to turn around to face his husband and suggest that Stannis, as _Captain_ , should probably head back inside and do his job.

“You’re right. I will. This is my ship and I need to save all the people, crew and guests, from the iceberg…”

_Why me?_

“…but first I must tell you something,” Stannis grabs Davos’ collar and pulls him in close, looking very wide-eyed and serious at Davos, “we _will_ share a door. We _will_ fit together. And we will _live_.”

Stannis walks away with water in his eyes, muttering something about that non-existing damned iceberg. Davos leans on the rails of the ship, giving himself a few moments to try forget when just happened. After a while he lets go of the rails and is about to walk away when he feels the ship turn off course. Davos goes straight back to holding the rails, not knowing what is going on.

Looking up to the bridge, the command area where the Captain steers the ship, Davos sees Stannis through the window. With one hand holding the wheel, the other hand holding a brownie, he looks out to the sea in front of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High Stannis loves Titanic it seems... Also, did you know they are making a Titanic 2? Like an actual second ship!! Or at least have proposed making a second one...


	4. #Lemoncakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  I highly recommend the medieval lemoncakes recipe found in _A Feast of Ice and Fire_ , the official Game of Thrones cookbook.
> 
> written by bookhoor  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [](http://imgur.com/jo2R8jS)   
>    
>  _picset by ZoeSong_   
>    
> 

Sansa is not drunk. She has had two Tom Collins (light on lemon juice, heavy on gin) but she is most shertainly NOT drunk. She hiccoughs and steadies herself before continuing her tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. She can’t stop thinking about the lemon cakes she’d had at the wedding reception. She is practically drooling as she thinks about them. No, scratch that, she is actually drooling a little bit. She absentmindedly wipes at her lip as she makes her way to the kitchen, hoping to catch the chef who made the lemon cakes. She’s hopeful he will give her the recipe, or if she’s really lucky, a fresh-baked platter of them.

Sandor is tired, but he doesn’t want to go to bed until he’s finished prepping the meats for tomorrow. There are still six trout to fillet, and two rabbits that need skinning and gutting. There is a bang and a soft curse outside, and he pauses in his knifework. The door slams open, and there is a goddess standing in front of him. A flushed, possibly drunk, goddess. And she is chirping at him.

“Lemon cakes!”

“Excuse me?” Sandor puts the knife down, and walks around his counter to stand in front of her. She’s weaving just a bit, and he wants to be ready to catch her if need be.

“The lemon cakes. They were amazing. I want the recipe.” She is on her toes peering over his shoulder hopefully, like the duck on his counter might turn into a plate of lemon cakes.

He is about to tell her that she should come back tomorrow when the pastry chef is around, but she is looking him in the eye, and saying how much she wants the recipe and would he mind terribly and she’ll do anything pretty please, and a wickedly humorous thought occurs to him.

“I have a better idea, pretty girl. How about I _show_ you how to make lemon cakes?” He’s watched Hot Pie make ‘em enough times, he figures he can fumble his way through them. And if he’s lucky, he’ll get to fumble his way into her as well.

 

Sansa is thrilled. This is working out better than she’d thought it would. First of all, the man behind the lemon cakes is the Warrior come to life. If the Warrior were really, REALLY tall, and really, REALLY hairy. She hopes it’s okay to think like that, and makes a mental note to light a candle to him tomorrow just in case it isn’t.

Secondly, he has offered to show her how to make lemon cakes. It’s better than having a platter ready, because she will be able to make them again later, and it’s better than a recipe, because it will give her more time to ogle his arms. She’s subtle about it but by the Seven they are huge and her mouth is watering again and this time she isn’t thinking about the lemon cakes. She takes her cardigan off and picks an apron off the rack on the wall.

“Ready!” she chirps. He has put out some mixing bowls and ingredients, and he looks over at her and grins. It is a predatory grin, and her own smile widens in response.

Sandor is pretty sure he’s missing a couple of ingredients, but if he’s lucky it won’t matter. He’s more interested in rubbing butter on her beautiful teats than mixing it with sugar, and he wants to lick confectioner’s sugar out of her belly button instead of sprinkling it over baked goods.

An hour later and he is balls deep in this fiery-haired goddess, her ass up on the counter and leaving flour-dusted imprints as she slides to meet each thrust of his hips. She is gasping and her mouth is open and he wants to shove his cock in it but he is encased in her velvety soft lining and never wants to pull out, so he compromises and sticks two batter-dipped fingers into her mouth, and she is sucking on them and moaning and he is so fucking close when the door to the kitchen slams open for the second time that night.

Her back is to the door so Sandor is the only one who sees the look of horror on Hot Pie’s face, but the noise has penetrated the fog of Sansa’s mind and she turns her head to see what’s going on. She squeaks, which causes her muscles to involuntarily tighten around Sandor, and he groans. He was so close, too.

Sansa has never been so embarrassed in her entire life. In the space of a single hour she has managed to tick off about four items on the purity checklist she’d found in _Westeros Women’s Weekly_ (before tonight, she’d only had 25 of the 200 items ticked off) and now she is sitting there covered in flour and lemon zest and her body is still thrumming and after all of this, the Warrior made flesh wasn’t even responsible for the lemon cakes.


	5. #FunyunsBringPeopleTogether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By FrozenSnares

Night has long since set, and Rickon gauges that it has definitely been long enough to give this girl a call. No, not a call. Calls are way too forward. A text message. Rickon frowns, hovering his thumbs over the keyboard. He bites his lip hard, trying to think of a casual way to ask her out. It was easier than he thought to get her number, and she definitely seemed interested. And, well, two weeks on a boat together is bound to get him _somewhere_ with her. Or maybe it’s too much time for him to fuck it up. He slumps down on his bed, thankful that he had gotten his own cabin as part of this vacation, no matter how small it is.

Closing out of the text messaging, he pulls up Snapchat. Snapchat is good. This way, he can gauge if she’s interested by whether or not she opens the picture and hopefully replies. Rolling around on the bed, Rickon tries to take a stupid picture, frustrating himself when they all come out blurry. Swearing, he freezes on his back, taking a mostly upside-down selfie. Scowling at the picture, he slowly types out, _Bored on a cruise #firstworldproblems_.

Smiling to himself, Rickon thinks its generic enough that she won’t know it’s solely for her. Still he only selects the one recipient before sending it off.

 

Shireen turns to her phone that just lit up, pausing her scroll down the rabbit hole to reach for her phone. She has a snapchat from Rickon and is surprised to see one. She only just met him, but she’s eager to see what his snapchats are like. She opens the message, surprised to find him so casually placed. Even from the picture, she can tell he’s in one of the smallest cabins. Turning slightly, she takes a selfie with the corner of her laptop peeking out. Deciding that it’s too boring, she re-takes the picture, dragging her hair forward over her shoulders and sticking her tongue out. Giggling, she types out, _That’s what wifi is for_.

Resuming her scrolling, Shireen sits with her phone face up on her bed, waiting for a response. It comes quickly, Rickon looking a little eager. _Wanna share that password?_

Shireen feigns thinking for her next picture. _I might… for a price._

The next snap makes her heart pound. Rickon’s grinning, and he looks ridiculously more attractive because of it. She considers screenshotting it, before scolding herself and reading the caption. _Name it_

Blinking at the screen of her phone, Shireen tries to remember what she wrote. Hastily, she takes another picture. _You bring the snacks._

_Done._

Shireen stares down at the screen for a solid minute after the snap is clear from her screen. That never works for her. Usually, she didn’t even try to interact with the passengers, knowing that no one ever responded to her selfies with much enthusiasm, and she definitely never agreed to share her private Wi-Fi connection with any of them. Quickly, Shireen shut her computer, trying to smooth out the sheets of her bed. She’s trying to think through what she even agreed to when her phone lights up with another snap. Tentatively, she opens it, biting her lip all the while. It’s from Rickon, and it just a picture of two giant bags of Funyuns and a two liter of root beer with the caption, _And where should I take this to?_

Trying to look casual, Shireen takes another selfie, typing out her room number over it. Then, she jumps up, pocketing her key and phone before running off to the front of the hall. Her rooms were far away from where the guests’ were, and the doorway leading to them had a special clearance on them. There was no way Rickon could manage it on him own. She rushes down the hall, stopping herself at intervals to remind herself to stay calm. He wanted to steal her Wi-Fi. Nothing more. Just as she was rounding a corner, someone snags her wrist and drags her back.

“Are where are you rushing off to at this hour?” Her stepdad has his eyes narrowed at her. He looks off to the side before adding on, “And have you seen your father?”

“What? Dad?” Shireen clarifies quickly. “No… what’s _he_ doing out so late?”

Davos crosses his arms, stepping away. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I haven’t been able to catch him yet.”

“ _Catch_?” Shireen questions, her eyebrows raised.

“And do you know a Wilson?” Davos cuts her off again.

“Look, Pops, I’ve never met a Wilson, but I gotta go meet a friend so we can watch some Netflix together,” Shireen says evasively, hoping that she hasn’t left Rickon waiting long.

“Hold on,” Davos says sharply. “Not the Netflix and chill? Because I know what that means. I saw the Buzzfeed video. Sophie Turner told me. You know, she looks a lot like that woman from the—”

“ _Not_ that,” Shireen says firmly. “I mean, have you seen me?”

“I’m sure that—” Davos catches himself. He mulls over another thought. “Lots of young people would—” He chews his lip slowly. “Your Instagram’s really nice. I need to find your father.”

Shireen giggles, thankful that her stepdad never finished any of those sentences. There was no way they could end well. Then, she makes her way to the front of the area, only slightly disappointed to find no one there. The cruise liner was big, but it wasn’t _that_ hard to get lost on the way to her room. Sighing, she pulls her phone from her pocket, seeing that she has three unopened snapchats from Rickon.

The first is a picture of her door, room number in view, captioned _Did you vanish?_

The second is of Rickon sitting just outside her door, snacks piled up next to him. It reads, _Starting the stakeout_

The third is from the porthole at the end of the hall. Everything through it is completely dark, and she can just make out the horizon. _I swear I just saw Nessie_ , it reads. Laughing at her phone, Shireen prepares to respond, rounding a corner just as she lifts the phone and crashing into a solid mass. She backs away immediately, apologizing.

“There you are!” comes the response, and Shireen blinks up at Rickon. He starts pulling her back to her room, and it takes her a while to realize that he’s actually here.

“Hold on,” Shireen says, planting her feet in the hallway. “How did you get here? You need a special room key.”

Rickon’s face twists up in a strange pattern before he shrugs and pulls out an ordinary room key, but when he turns it around, there’s clearly a small symbol on it that she recognizes. It belongs to her dad.

“Where did you get that?” she asks.

“Some guy gave it to me,” Rickon says, shrugging again. “He told me that he was king of the world, heading for the stars. Then, he gave this to me and told me that he didn’t need to be first class anymore.”

Rolling her eyes, Shireen opens the door to her room, thinking that something has obviously come over her dad. She’ll have to find him later. She beckons Rickon in, trying to think of a way to ask him for the key back, but he’s smiling at her like no one else ever did as he sets down the snacks.

“Well, I think this is truly first class,” he says. “I barely fit on my bed.”

Shireen blushes. “Um, you’re welcome to sit if you’d like,” she says, realizing that there are no other places to sit but her bed. “And I can get you the Wi-Fi password…”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I didn’t come here for the Wi-Fi?” he asks, looking sheepish.

Shireen frowns, looking around and trying to gather her thoughts. “I thought you wanted to watch the season finale of the Walking Dead?” she asks. “It’s all you were talking about during the reception.”

Rickon laughs. “Yeah, cause I’ve been without an internet connection for the past week now, considering the drive to Lannisport,” he explains. “But this cruise is a lot better than I was expecting.”

“Not bored anymore?” Shireen asks.

Rickon grins. “Definitely not.”


	6. #NutAllergy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By AsbestosMouth.

* * *

 

 

The chief steward neatly avoids any wedding related shenanigans. He is that sort of person.

He is, as ever, above all of that hormonal imbalanced nincompoopery that drives idiotic and overly young men and women (and sometimes men and men, and women and women, as this is nothing but a new and gilded age of equality for all) to pledge their troth. Spending foolish amounts of hard earned cash upon a once-worn dress and a brawl _cum_ party, only to be divorced six months later and be left with nothing but bitter tasting despair and large credit card bills?

No, he would never indulge in such frivolous waste and emotional rubbish. Well, he may, if he were not plagued by impotence and an elegant mistrust of everything that reminds him that his downstairs does not, and he shall put this delicately as he always does, in couched terms and a tremor of innuendo, possess an elevator with which to proceed to the second floor. The stairs have long been since out of action. In essence, his nether regions are but a bungalow in a sea of high-rise purpose built apartment blocks.

He shimmers. He bows obsequiously to guests and panders their every whim. He is consummate. Dedicated. Utterly professional.

He is Varys.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The usual tipple left for the captain in the usual place, even if Captain Baratheon is conspicuous in his absence. The glass is polished and heavy cut Dornish crystal, the drink within made to satisfy and appease Stannis’ rigorous standards. Usually he would linger for a moment, speak of any issues the crew may have or indulge in lovely yet trifling gossip, surreptitiously appreciate Mr. Seaworth who is quite the spectacular piece of rough trade if ever there was one. Not that it matters to Varys, of course. He looks upon other humans with the eye of the art critic; very much appreciative of what he sees, but if he had any sort of talent whatsoever he’d be slapping paint onto canvas himself.

Dear me, someone has been untidy. How unlike Stannis to tolerate such disorder. He sweeps a few chocolatey crumbs into his hand, pauses, then sniffs at the remains with the intense concentration (and appearance) of a drug-detecting bloodhound.

 _Oh_.

Just to check, on the off chance that his preternatural sense of smell has finally failed, he touches the tip of his tongue to one of the more robust pieces. Pops it in his mouth. Waits for the second or two the morsel takes to melt.

_Oh dear. Potency and quality, in one tiny nibble._

Is it illegal to be absolutely out of one’s tree on marijuana when in control of several hundred or so tonnes of thrusting cruise ship? Sometimes the other crew members compare Varys to a particularly eccentric headmaster of an exclusive boarding school, overseer of the sort of establishment that encourages the usual class of intelligentsia, spy, and thoroughly deviant serial killer. It is known that when Varys is Very Disappointed, and makes that slightly constipated concerned face, hiding is usually the best option; he can be worse than any teacher or peeved mother with his gentle but thorough dressing-downs. Sometimes it seems behind his carefully crafted person and speech, his tone and enunciation screaming of elocution lessons and being dragged up somewhere both exotic and slum-ridden, a different Varys lurks. Someone not quite _kosher_. He may be strange, and particularly unlikable due to an innate creepiness even if attempting to be friendly, but his minions understand he has the the ship and the personnel in his heart. The needs of the many outweigh the desires of the few, after all, as many a tyrant knows. His loyalty, and Varys is particularly devoted to his particular causes, is unquestionable.

Whoever mans the helm. Baratheon or otherwise.

Not that Stannis is a poor captain; he delegates impressively, understands the nuances of leadership, he is a fine person to answer to. Varys decides he shall not destroy, not this time. Perhaps this is a foolish jape from a schoolchild, or a bored student unwilling to spend an aeon upon a cruise with, Stranger help them, Cersei Bloody Lannister.

Yes, it must be that. No person will perish. He shall stay his hand.

He taps his plump fingers upon polished teak, checks that the usual automatic fail safes are indeed being both automatic and saving rather than failing, and whisks off in a cloud of lavender and white.

 

* * *

 

Where would one hide a possible army of pot brownies?

The chef with the impressive forearms is liberally doused in flour as he emerges from the kitchen with a pretty red-haired female guest at his heels. Varys smiles, all clipped and professional, dips a small bow as the couple scamper past him like a brace of gun-dogs. Flicking through his mental catalogue of wedding guests, he alights upon the girl’s name, age, weight, family connexions, vices, virtues, education, and other small matters that a chief steward in the know would, indeed, know. His intimate knowledge, and he is accused of being far too nosy but how can he help himself if information somehow manages to wriggle into his synapses from various well-regarded and compensated sources, allows him to be both an excellent servant and a dangerous foe. 

No one really knows about the foe part, not yet. Varys plays his cards very close to his rather splendidly plump chest. The demise of a western shipping conglomerate, caught in an endless squabble between three owners that was, frankly, far too unseemly for such an august organisation. A little word here, a well-applied padded hip in order to understand the physics of whether a body will reach true velocity when falling from the observation deck of a cruise ship into  body of water there; all for the greater good. As Niccolo said so succinctly; _everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are._

The chef and his Stark girl skid about the corner as Hot Pie emerges from chaos, bug-eyed and very red.

“Dearest, you seem perturbed.” Varys has a voice like a silkworm.

“All over my surfaces. I’d sterilised them, Varys. Sterilised them!”

He manages to pat the pastry chef’s shoulder without recoiling. Humans and their propensity to touch, always so very unhygienic. Varys did have a boyfriend once, in his tragic past life which he never expands upon because he is Varys and if anyone hoards secrets it is him, but he was lean and glorious and deliciously exotic. A mango of a man, or a banana. Thinking of Illyrio, definitely more towards the banana end of the fruit comparison scale, makes Varys not so much melancholy as twitchy. Sometimes he wishes that his undercarriage still worked so the cork-like pressure that builds could be relieved with a firmly applied hand and scented lotion. The one he wore during his drag days, with the suggestion of glitter, perfect over highlighter when contouring and for adding _zhuzh_. He now takes his pleasure in soaking in a bath filled with strawberry scented fizzy bombs and reads darling Niccolo upon his Kindle. Sometimes he peruses the free softcore erotica he has downloaded from Amazon and mocks the inaccuracies, grammar, and general tone. His reviews are legendarily scathing and catty in turn. Publishers offer him editing roles, behind the scenes and lurking, but why would a man possibly give up wearing an entirely ravishing uniform every waking second?

He feels like bloody Richard Gere in that uniform.

Hot Pie thunders back into the kitchen, wielding the surface cleanser spray beloved of all who knead and bake, but squeezes Varys’ hand in brotherhood before he does so. Varys attends the nearest sanitation station and liberally douses his sullied flesh in alcohol based gel. There are many of such scattered throughout the ship; health and safety and the ever present fear of Norovirus demands as such. He was damned if the Green Wedding happened once more; it took weeks to scrub the vomit from the curtains.

 

* * *

 

“Have you seen anyone in possession of suspicious baked goods?”

Beric grunts, shrugging massive shoulders. As always he is covered with various lubricants and oils, a spanner suggestive in his back pocket, scarred chest glistening and streaked black and white; quite the arousing zebra centaur. This has no effect at all upon Varys, even if he appreciates the aesthetic qualities of tight stained overalls and steel-toed boots. It is as in the Westerosi Museum, or Metropolitan King's Landing, or any institution of antiquities stuffed to the gills with awful Myrish reproductions of exquisite Valyrian nudes. Terribly pretty but what is the use of fondling when nothing happens?

No one will possess illicit substances on his ship, not on Varys’ ever-present watch. This is his domain. In name the Captain owns it, and in deed Mr. Seaworth owns the Captain, but, by Niccolo and all his machinations, Varys is the true protector of this floating kingdom. Without him, all would fall to ashes and ruin.

And they would run out of gin. Awful.

He trots off in that delicate for a large man way, white dress uniform complete with pale kid gloves, bald head powdered, to find the skeleton key.

The one that opens every door in the entire ship.

As Niccolo proffered, _if an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared_. He is convinced that Machiavelli meant to include brownies with that remit.

Those divine chocolate-y treats will die. They will be slaughtered by the hand of vengeance, or the spoon of throwing away, or the knife of forcing them into the waste disposal so no more of their tempting foulness will remain.

Die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varys enjoys _Twilight_. He has a specially designated red pen for it, and everything.


	7. #MedicalGrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by Jillypups

THC gathers, and now your high begins.

It shall not end until the last cellophane is unwrapped.

I shall incur no dry mouth, cause no nausea, bring no hangover.

I shall inspire no paranoia (much) and harsh no mellow.

I shall live and die in your bloodstream.

I am the hysterical giggling during study hall.

I am the existential pondering in the grocery store aisle.

I am the mad case of the munchies, the brain fart mid-monologue, the mild hallucination that makes operating machinery a bad idea.

I pledge my chocolatey goodness and chemical makeup to Saturday morning cartoons and poorly executed jokes, for this day and all the days to come.


	8. #Chapter8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have zero ideas for a chapter title
> 
> Ned/Catelyn by SassyEggs

“Cat, you almost…”  Ned Stark stopped short when he saw his wife, still in her lounge clothes and reading glasses and flipping through Sansa’s latest copy of _Westeros Women’s Weekly._ “Why aren’t you _dressed?”_

“Why do you think?” she asked coolly without looking up, and he knew that tone meant _don’t test me Ned._ But tonight was important and she _knew_ that.

“We have reservations at the chef’s table in 10 minutes. You’ve always wanted to do a chef’s table, you said so when we booked the cruise.”

“I never wanted to do it with your drunk friend and his hussy of a wife. Or ex-wife. Whatever she is." Only Catelyn could say something so venomous and make it sound like she was reading a children’s book.

“You can’t skip it, Cat, no matter how much you want to. You’re the mother of the groom.”

“Mother of the groom? They’ve been married two months already, when is this going to end?”

“They’re family now, so it’ll end when you’re dead.”

“Sweet, sweet death.”

“Catelyn…”

“Eddard…”

Catelyn Stark’s usually poised demeanor was cracking, he could see it in her slumped shoulders and tight lips; a few seconds more and the walls came tumbling down.

“That woman is _infuriating.”_

“I know.”

“Did you _see_ her?  Who wears a bustier to her own daughter’s wedding?”

“You already know who.”

“And the _singing!_ Gods, Ned, she sounded like a drunken loon with an opium addiction.”

“That’s a charitable review.”

“I thought poor Myrcella was going to die from the shame.”

“Well, she’s nothing like her mother.”

“And thank the Seven for that,” she sighed, finally calming down, and he was certain that she would go to dinner now that it was out of her system. But then she looked up at him with a tired expression, defeated in a way he’d rarely seen before.  “I can’t spend more time with Cersei Lannister, Ned.  I just _can’t._ I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” he reassured her, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “She probably assumes you’ll skip it, anyway.”

To her credit, Catelyn barely reacted, her face as unlined and emotionless as stone. But then her eyes went sky-ward and she heaved an exaggerated sigh and he knew he’d won.

“Give me five minutes.”

She needed only four, and she looked breath-taking; then again, she always did. When they were led back to a private room to meet Robert and Cersei for their chef’s table experience, every head in the dining hall had turned to look at Catelyn. Robert could have his golden wife with her flashy clothes and attention-seeking antics, Ned’s wife demanded attention for other reasons- she was beautiful, yes, but she was also elegant, and kind, and smart, and easy to talk to.  Cersei Lannister was nothing compared to Catelyn Stark, and he would do everything he could to let her know that.

Dinner was… well, it was amazing- ten courses, custom-created for each of them, expertly-crafted by what was no doubt the world’s largest, ugliest, grouchiest chef, and each course came with a wine to complement the flavors. Robert asked for more food; Cersei asked for more wine.  The chef gave them scowls and a lecture on savoring the dishes as presented while Ned and Catelyn shot each other amused looks.  The entire thing took a solid three hours, but it was three hours well-spent, and when they made their way back out onto the deck Ned slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I suppose not. But those two have no business at a chef’s table.”

“Eh. That chef kept them mostly in line.”

“He sure did,” Catelyn laughed. “And he can cook.  Maybe we should introduce him to Sansa.”

“That’s not even funny,” Ned grumbled. It was a _bit_ funny- Chef Sandor obviously didn’t meet Catelyn’s high standards for potential son-in-laws, but there was also no way in seven hells he could meet Sansa’s, either. 

“Speaking of which, where are the kids tonight?”

“Not sure. There’s Gendry, maybe he knows.  Hey Gendry.”

Gendry was the product of one of Robert’s many transgressions, and Robert had managed to pull some strings to get him a job on Stannis’ boat. Not that it was terribly difficult- Gendry was a good boy, friendly and respectful and hard-working.  And now he was coming their way, smiling, except…

“You’re not Gendry.”

“Ah, no… I’m not. I’m Podrick.”  Something in his scrunched eyebrows said he was genuinely sorry he couldn’t be the man they were looking for.  “But I, uh… I hear that a lot.”

“Oh. Sorry.  I’m Ned Stark, and this is…”

The introduction trailed off when something odd caught his attention; he took a step toward the front of the boat, eyes narrowing into focus. Was that… could that be…. It was.  Stannis Baratheon, the stodgy captain of the Storms End, was standing at the bow in his full crisp-white uniform, arms spread wide and beatific face turned into the wind while a bored-looking Davos stood behind him, holding his husband by the hips.

“They’ve been doing that for hours,” the boy who was not Gendry said. Ned turned and met his eyes, and they both shook their confused heads and made no further comment.  “Sorry, I’m… uh, I have to get back to work.  Nice to meet you.” 

Podrick wandered away, head down, and when they were alone again Ned pulled Catelyn into an embrace.

“The night is young, my lady,” he hummed into her neck.

“What would you like to do, my lord?”

“Casino?”

“Uh. You know how I feel about gambling.”

“There’s some sort of big show going on tonight.”

“I saw a group of girls in costumes. If you could even call those costumes.  More like slivers of fabric held together with dental floss.  No thank you.”

“There’s a piano lounge with a live singer. Doesn’t look too crowded.”

“They allow _smoking_ in there, Ned.”   

He sighed. “Wanna play shuffleboard?”

 _“Shuffleboard?”_ she echoed, amused… and slightly offended.  “Isn’t that usually for old people?”

“I’m out of suggestions here, Cat.”

For the second time that night he got to witness his wife’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Shuffleboard it is.”


	9. #SugarHigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by SnowWhiteKnight  
>   
>   
> 
> 
>   
>  [](http://imgur.com/8677S72)   
>  _picset by ZoeSong_   
> 

“I’m _bored,”_ Jaime whined. Tyrion could only roll his eyes at his older brother who was acting like a ten year old who had been put in timeout. They were, in fact, lounging by one of the larger pools on board the good ship Storm’s End. The wedding of their niece and her husband (twice over now) had been wonderful and now the two brothers had a little less than two weeks to enjoy themselves on the remaining cruise time.

“Why don’t you go for a swim?” Tyrion asked. He personally didn’t want to move, there were too many pretty girls to watch, many of which had significant others, but that didn’t mean he could at least enjoy the sight of them in their lovely swimsuits.

“Too many people. It’s not any fun if it’s too crowded,” Jaime pointed out.

Tyrion sighed. “Fine. Why don’t you go ask the concierge to recommend something to you? I hear she’s really good at her job.”

**********

There were reasons Jaime was not allowed to have candy or caffeine. Ever. But what his family didn’t know… He swiped a giant lollipop from the kids snack table. _Mmmm...rainbowy goodness._ His normal swagger soon sped up, a bounce added to each step, until the five inch circle of candy was demolished and he was skipping down the ship halls.

_Concierge, concierge, where can you be? What sort of game will you have….for ME!_ Maybe the lolli had been a bad idea. _Should have got the bigger one instead hey what’s that I wonder how the newlyweds are doing I should try fishing can I try scuba diving but then my hair will get pointy I should get a haircut like a mohawk RESPECT THE ‘HAWK maybe i should dye it red too four six eight who do I appreci--_

He gave a loud “OOMF” as he ran into a solid wall of person. He managed to not stumble, somehow, and looked up to see a large angry man with a half mangled face. “Oh it’s you the shouty chef. You told my nephew he could have the good brandy over your dead body and then threw a pot at his head.”

The shouty one sneered and grunted as a reply before turning to leave.

“Oh! Can you tell me where I might find the con sea erge?” Jaime called after him. The shouty one was walking towards a pretty redhead who hadn’t noticed him yet (how does one not notice _that_ man?!?!) and only deigned to point a meaty finger down towards a stairwell that took him to a lower deck. The skipping had become a running hop and he wondered if he should tie some ribbons to his arms as he followed the signs that brought him to a long desk. A tall (almost as tall as the shouty one who didn’t shout all that much to be honest), lanky fellow with short, light blonde hair stood at the desk in a very smart looking uniform of an embroidered yellow gold polo and black slacks. Another crew member, a short stocky man, in a similar outfit stood at the other end of the desk. Jaime’s vision was going a little fuzzy from the sugar high, but he swore that there was something off about the blonde man. The flat chest was more rounded than a muscular set of pecs should be. Wait a minute… “Good gods, you’re a woman!”

She glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. The fellow crew member looked horrified at Jaime’s declaration. Well, it was true. She was very mannish, but with nice wide kissable lips and a long throat, good for nuzzling. He watched her take a deep breath, the barely A-cups moving up and straining slightly against her polo shirt. He was fascinated by the way the woven threads draped over her body. _It’s like a snug hug_ _I bet I could draw that I need a pen and a napkin and lunch and sandwiches sound good with ham and cheese and tomatoes and cherries and grapes with whipped cream and caramelized sugar drizzled on to it._ A large fake smile was plastered on her face as Jaime looked up.

“How may I help you, sir?” she asked pleasantly. It was clear to anyone but Jaime that she was putting extra effort in being nice.

“I’m bored. I came _allllllllllllllllllll_ the way from the pool on the lido deck to talk to you. It was a very long hike. I got lost three times and the shouty chef was most helpful.” Jaime leaned onto the desk for support. Was the ship swaying more or was it just him? He stared at her nametag. _Brie-enne brie brienne smells much nicer then the cheese more like the ocean in a sweet breeze._

“The lido deck? You mean the one that’s right down the hallway?” She pointed to the end of the hall, where he could see the people sitting next to the pool, though the actual pool was hidden from his view. Tyrion waved at him cheerfully from his seat, not one hundred steps away from where Jaime stood.

“Oh...must have taken the scenic route then. What is there to do on this ruddy ship?” He turned his gaze back to her and was captured by her eyes. _Sooooo bluuuuuuue…._ They reminded him of a sapphire necklace Robert had once given Cersei, which Cersei promptly threw at Robert’s head, screaming blue wasn’t her color. Good times.

“Well, it depends on what you like to do,” she said. She waited for a bit expectantly, sighed, and asked, “What do you like to do, sir?”

“Wenching!” He didn’t remember what that was exactly, but it sounded fun and piratey and arrrrrrr. She gave him a disgusted look, so maybe it wasn’t what he thought after all, but her reaction was priceless. He needed more of that, please. “You could be my wench and I will be yours, and we shall wench the seven seas together!” The room was really starting to sway, almost into a spin but not quite-- nope, spinning, definitely spinning now. He kept his focus on her brilliant blue eyes. They were just about the only thing that seemed to stay still.

“Sir...are you alright?” she asked delicately. He thought she might actually be concerned for him and he touched his hand to his heart to show her how much that meant to him. She might be mannish, but she was sweet. His heart was in his shoulder, right? Or was it his throat? Suddenly, the ground gave way, or maybe it was his legs. “Sir!” Strong arms caught him before he hit the floor.

He could hear Tyrion calling for him as he was lifted up. _I’m a princess! someday my prince will come my manly light blonde haired wench of a prince and we shall have blonde babies that will carry on our strengths I will make a lovely bride did Tyrion always have two colors of eyes? oh but my wench is so strong, I feel so protected and cherished I want to hug her and tweet it and #HotGuyHugFTW it because I’m hot and I’ll be hugging her._

The next thing he knew, he could hear Tyrion’s voice speaking to someone, “Here’s his room, I had his key for safekeeping.”

“Is he going to be alright?” his princely wench asked quietly. Or would it be his wenchly prince?

“What? Oh, yes, of course, it’s just a sugar overdose. Happens every so often, usually when he’s been left alone too long. He eats too much, too quickly and this is the result. No moderation for my brother. A good night’s rest and plenty of water is what he needs.” He thought he heard Tyrion shake his head. “Anyway, you can just set him on the bed. Thank you for your help, Miss Brienne.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Tyrion.” He felt his weight shift as she lowered him onto his bed.

“Nuhoooo,” he muttered, clinging to her shirt with his closest hand.

“Sir, Mr. Jaime, I’m going to have to ask you to let go,” she said, still quiet. He liked her voice, so soothing, their millions of blonde babies would love it, too.

“Want a hug...tuck me in, then another hug,” he said. The room was dark, or maybe his eyes were closed.

“Sir, I’m not supposed to hug guests.”

“But we’re going to go wenching and have lots of blonde babies,” he whined. “Millions of trillions of blonde babies with emeralds and sapphires for eyes.”

“Uh...sir?”

“Never mind him, Miss Brienne. He gets a little wonky during the sugar crash,” Tyrion, the traitor, said. He tried to growl but it came out more like a wheeze. _He probably wants her all to himself! That scoundrel… I will fight you for her, little brother!_ Mercifully, he passed out a few seconds later.

**********

Jaime woke the next morning from his sugar crash, with dry mouth and a humongous urge to pee. He took care of both quickly, showered and dressed in his most flattering shorts and shirt. Then he spent an inordinate amount of time fixing his hair to be _the cutest_ it could be, despite the fact that the wind off the ocean would probably mess it up anyway. He couldn’t remember why he had decided it, but he wanted a hug and it was going to be from the wench. _In the Game of Hugs, I will be victorious!_ he thought to himself as he donned his aviator sunglasses and marched out the door.


	10. #ACompletelyPlannedStop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By FrozenSnares

“Gryffindor.”

“Ravenclaw.”

“Gryffindor.”

“Ravenclaw.”

Shireen groans, yelping slightly, and sharply jerking her thumb back and narrowly avoiding the swoop of Rickon’s. Their hands are tightly clasped together in one of the least intimate ways. Thumb-wrestling definitely never seemed like a particularly romantic idea of a date to her, but the way Rickon stares at her makes her heart flutter, even though he’s relentless in trying to beat her. She glances up to see him smirk and freezes. After a moment, she feels a gentle tug on her thumb. Pulling away, she tries to start up the debate again.

“You’re just saying that because of how he was in season one,” Shireen says, trying to concentrate on both things at once. “Glenn _definitely_ isn’t a Ravenclaw.”

Rickon bites his tongue, looking down at their hands. “I guess I can give you that one.”

Shireen smiles at her success. “Do you also think that Daryl’s a Slytherin?”

“Okay, _rude_ , Miss Character Development,” he shoots back. “He’s completely a Gryffindor.”

During Rickon’s distraction in defending a fictional characters, Shireen swept up her thumb to pin his down. Rickon jerks his arm away, but her grip is so tight that he simply pulls her closer to him. Stumbling a bit, Shireen throws out her other arm to catch herself, but the only thing there is to stop her fall is Rickon. Pressed up against his chest, Shireen hesitantly looks up. Rickon grins at her. Suddenly, Shireen realizes how dark it is, how they’ve spent the entire day just talking about nonsense. Clearing her throat, she takes a tiny step away.

“I won,” she mumbles.

Rickon’s smile widens. “Do you want a prize?”

The heat rushes to her face, and Shireen fumbles with her thoughts. Before she can think of anything to say, she notices a mass of land coming into view on the horizon. Frowning, she narrows her eyes, trying to make the darkness clearer.

“I mean, or we could do something else,” Rickon amends quickly. “I’m not, like, trying to—”

“No, sorry!” Shireen says quickly. She steps back into him, giving him a reassuring smile. “I was just trying to figure out what _that_ is.”

“Our destination?” Rickon guesses, not bother to look behind him.

“And we’re just ten days ahead of schedule?” Shireen asks, pulling out her phone. She sees Rickon’s face fall, and points a finger at him, putting her phone up to her ear. “Don’t you move. We’re going to finish this as soon as I make this call.”

Rickon grins back at her, leaning onto the railing of the ship and watching her as the call goes through.

\--

The ship docked sometime in the night. It had to have, but it wasn’t supposed to be there. The waters here were barely deep enough to dock standard shipping vessels, let alone a massive cruise liner. It is an entirely unwelcome sight, but nothing that can be fixed with any sort of haste.

Asha frowns, setting up shop on the island. All her work in making her merchandise in line with the brutality that the island is known for is about to be completely ruined by the whims of disgustingly privileged cruise-goers. Turning her back on the boat, she tries to pretend that it doesn’t exist. After all, she can’t just let one mishap ruin her entire day.

How wrong she is.

Not even an hour later, the door to her shop is thrown open, and the last person in the world that she wants to see comes strolling in like he owns the place. She doesn’t even give him time to talk.

“Get out, Theon.”

Her little brother looks massively offended. “Oh, come on, sis,” he says, moving up to the counter and leaning over it. Asha grips the dirk hidden under the counter. “I just need you to hook me up real fast. My entire stash got swiped.”

“I think,” Asha starts slowly feigning thought, “that I can report you for irresponsible use of your proclaimed ‘medicinal’ uses if you can get your stuff stolen so fast. And I _know_ that I don’t serve pussies, so get out.”

“At least get me a connection on the island,” Theon says, trying to sound casual, but she can see the look of desperation in his eyes.

Asha doesn’t even have time to weigh the pros and cons of helping out her brother. Before she can distinctly form a thought, the door opens again. No less than twenty people entered at once, talking animatedly with each other and browsing the shop. Groaning, Asha slumps down on the counter and bangs her head against it. “Get out,” she mumbles again.

A few of the customers turn to give her questioning looks, and Asha tries not to ruin her business prospects for the day. Luckily, her partner in crime steps out, and Qarl is the perfect person to handle the storefront. He manages to shove her into a back room, and she slumps into a chair. He can make a crowd like him while answering questions and getting sales for the day. Asha knows that she would just as quickly snap at the first person who asked whether her merchandise was authentic.

Pouring herself a cup of strong black coffee, Asha puts the cruise goers far from her mind. She expertly slams the door on Theon yet again, and hides out in the back room of her shop until the rush of potential customers.

Qarl checks in a few times, asking for help only after he’s removed Theon from the shop. Asha slowly slips back into the comfort of her life, only getting peeved a few more times. When the rush finally ends, Asha leans on the counter, huffing out a large breath of air.

“I hate tourists,” she groans. The door slams open, and Asha whips around, fuming. “Get _out_ , Theon.”


	11. #ShoutyChefandLittleBird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> um. well. ::shakes head:: just yeah. SanSan smut ahead!
> 
> written by paperflowercrowns

Sexual encounters with practical strangers was definitely not something Sansa did on the norm.  
  
Or well, ever actually.  
  
Yet here she was with the skirt of her sundress rucked up past her hips, pushed up against the wall in some secluded corner of the cruise ship, her white lace panties pulled to the side as the ships chef was devastating her with his mouth.  
  
This wasn't the first time since the lemoncakes encounter (and probably scaring that poor pastry chef for life) that she had found herself in this predicament. More like the 6th or 7th come to think of it. Basically every time the two of them ran into each other on the ship, they ended up finding a spot to hook up, having the most mind blowing sex Sansa had ever experienced despite not even knowing this mans name.  
  
In fact, in her head she always referred to the man in question as “the shouty chef,” and that was a little beyond embarrassing. Arya had actually snorted a giggle when Sansa had admitted to it out loud to her the other night in their suite.  
  
Not that any of this should have mattered at the current moment, not when she was on the brink of a blinding orgasm from the hulk of the man in between her legs.  
  
Gods he was good at this.  
  
With one last flick of his tongue across her clit, Sansa's world shattered into a million pieces. Gripping her thighs so tightly around his head, she was briefly afraid she was cutting off his oxygen supply before her body melted like butter in her post orgasmic haze.  
  
Strong arms caught her before she slid all the way down the wall and on to the shiny hardwood floor before.  
  
“Give me a minute.” She whispers, voice husky with lust as her companion chuckles gruffly against her clavicle.  
  
“Whatever you need sweetheart.” He says while pulling her panties down her thighs and pocketing them in the pocket of the chefs jacket he was wearing.  
  
After a few seconds to catch her breath, Sansa reached down in between her and Mr. Nameless to pull at the loose fitting chef pants he always wore. Her man was already impossibly hard in her hand as she gave him a swift tug, his knees buckling while he uttered a low moan into her ear.  
  
“You ready for me yet?” He rasps.  
  
“Uh huh.” Is all she can utter when she hears the him tearing the foil packet open with his teeth.  
  
“Here, let me do that for you.” She says as she grabs the condom from his hand, deftly sliding it on for him while he settles himself between her thighs.  
  
No matter how many times they have done this, the initial feeling of fullness that she experiences is always enough to make her eyes roll into the back of her head.  
  
“That good baby?” He asks as he pulls out only to quickly thrust back in.  
  
She cant even respond, her senses are in over drive as this man is giving her the absolute best pleasure she has ever received.  
  
He keeps his tempo up, and its a rigorous pace. The heat between them is palpable, figuratively and literally, as sweat is rolling down her back and underneath the dress that is now bunched up beneath her breasts.  
  
One of his overly large hands move from her hips to her center to rub over her slightly sensitive clit, and her stomach jolts at the sensations he is causing within her.  
  
She can tell he's getting close by the way his eyebrows are furrowed together, and she is nearing the edge of her second peak as well.  
  
“Say my name.” He moans, and she's taken aback for a second because this is not something they have ever done before.  
  
“What?” She stutters out, really unsure of what she should say.  
  
He continues to rub delicate circles over her clit, his teeth worrying at her earlobe.  
  
“Say my name.” He urges again, sucking a red bloom underneath her lobe.  
  
She's so close to her peak that she's not even sure what compels her to say it, maybe it's the over whelming amount of lust that is coursing through her body, or maybe it's just the fact that she doesn't even know his actual name, but she says the first thing that comes to her mind.  
  
“Shouty chef!” She cries out, feeling herself closing in on her orgasm.  
  
His fingers stutter briefly, but continue on as he squeezes his eyes shut and starts to thrust in complete abandon. She feels his release come momentarily before she is swept away with her own, riding it out with a series of moans that match his own.  
  
Sansa places her head on his shoulder as he pulls out of her, both of them breathing heavily as they rearrange their respective clothing.  
  
“So. What was it that you just called me?” Mr. Nameless finally asks, and Sansa feels her cheeks blooming bright red at the thought.  
  
“Um. Shouty chef?” She says meekly, burying her face into his chest as he wraps his arms around her.  
  
He gives a hearty laugh at that, and runs his fingers through her long red hair.  
  
“It's just that we have never really gotten around to introductions. So when I think about you I always call you the shouty chef.”  
  
“Ah. Okay. You have a point there. We probably should have done that bit already.” He murmurs into her hair where he cradles her to his chest.  
  
“I'm Sansa. Sansa Stark. My brother Robb was the one that got married earlier this week. Or well, married again I guess. That's why we're on this cruise.” She offers, fiddling with the buttons on his chef jacket.  
  
“I'm Sandor Clegane. Head chef on this ship, somehow. Um. Nice to finally have a better name to call you than Little Bird.”  
  
“Little Bird?” She asks, looking up at her now named companion.  
  
“Yeah. Well. Sometimes when you come, your moans are high pitched and chirpy. Okay, so every time you come you sound a little chirpy. But I like it.” He adds the last bit very hastily, at least having the decency to look slightly shame faced.  
  
“Little Bird. Well I guess it's better than shouty chef...” Sansa says, smiling widely up to Sandor.  
  
“Loads better.”

 


	12. #TrouserSnake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By AsbestosMouth, who said they would not ship. 
> 
> I don't trust that one. That one lies.

* * *

 

 

Professor Tyrell (“no please, call me Willas, calling a man by one’s title is so stuffy, don’t you think?”) can never quite understand how he came to be under the employ of one Captain Baratheon. All it took was a relaxing sojourn upon  _ Storm’s End _ , a fascinating and long-winded conversation that ended up as an impromptu lecture about Valyrian myth and culture via social history and a touch of humorous anecdata regarding several archaeological digs he had undertaken whilst an undergrad at King’s, and suddenly he was installed as the resident lecturer upon a cruise vessel. How terribly refreshing having interested parties agog upon his word than bored students; thrilling, really! He loves his summer job with the passion of a man still shocked at being able to talk to people about things he adores, and them actually not falling asleep or playing with their cellphones. _ Irate Crows _ is the bane of his teaching existence, especially as Willas cannot get past the third level.

He does not sail during term time; holidays only, of course. The pay is atrocious and many of the department fellows take extra employment during the off seasons; Willas is not the sort to rely on his obscenely rich family connexions. He is devoted to his role as lecturer in Ancient and Early-Modern Westerosi and Essosian Studies, though intimidated by those he teaches. The usual academia-encouraged backstabbing and murderous intent caused by variation in reading of sources, translations, and understanding of bias, means education is a surprisingly cut-throat environment, especially for a gentleman and a scholar who does not particularly enjoy the rougher side of the collegiate coin. Not that he is above all of that; any person who has read his treatise upon the intricacies of court politics and gender equality under the ancient Targaryen rule, concentrating on sister-wives and illegitimate offspring, understands the venom that the usually mild-mannered professor pours into his text. Shattering one historian’s illusion there, dragging one firmly down several pegs there. Hah! His theories are the One Truth in an ocean awash with codswallop peddled by little more than media whores. He smites with a pen, and stabs with conjecture. Willas is a warrior in ink.

However, at this moment in time, when Willas Tyrell should be preparing a charming and informal talk about the Iron Isles, he is curiously absent. His little factsheet leaflets are at the ready, given to Miss Tarth and handed out to disembarking passengers. Advertising promises the up-and-coming lecture in the smaller of the intimate coffee bars, and he is normally bustling about, setting up the computer and white screen; he has a thing for Powerpoint presentations. Something out of the ordinary drags him to another, less welcome state of mind; a miniscule but baffling slip of a matter.

The card is cream, and expensive, the sort upon which wedding invitations are etched. Pretty scalloped edge, the words written in a flowing and dare-say-it elegant hand.

 

_ Some people grumble that roses have thorns; I am grateful that thorns have roses _ .

 

It is the third such missive in as many days. He frowns and places it with the others, pinned to the neat corkboard covered in Post-Its and random bits of paper. At first Willas thought that someone might have mistaken his cabin for his sister’s, even Loras’; they are the types to attract romantic overtones due to their being blessed with the family looks (and in the case of Loras missing the intellect entirely). He sticky taped a note to his door to explain that this chamber was his, and the second note, the one with the Bronte quote (and Willas knows his literature, he is that sort of person along with possessing excellent Westernet- _ Fu _ ), explained that the sender was aware of who occupied the room, and indeed, the cards were for him.

Most would be swept away by the gesture, but not Professor Tyrell. He veers between flattered, stunned like a kipper, and terrified that the more psychotic of his student stalkers may have stowed away. They have their Ways. 

Teaching would be so much more rewarding if students were not involved. Ugh.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
“I just don’t know who could be doing this, Varys.” Tyrell wrings his hands, but thankfully keeps them to himself. Book dust and ink are an absolute swine to shift from pristine white uniforms. “I’ve just no clue whatsoever. I sleep, wake up, and there they are. I’ve asked one or two of the staff and they’ve seen no one whatsoever, so-”   
  
“My dear, you are not unattractive. Perhaps someone does fancy you?” Willas is pale, and intellectual, and favours tweed jackets with patched elbows. He passably resembles Giles from the popular teenage drama  _ Dany the Grumkin Slayer _ , but with better hair and fashionable glasses that Margaery obviously bullied him into purchasing. Not Varys’ type, which is surprisingly grubby for someone who  _ kvetches _ constantly about cleanliness. 

“I am on a boat-”

“Ship, dear. This is a ship.” Varys bristles internally. Willas is a terribly nice person and quite a pleasant conversationalist if steered away from obsessive historian mode, but if he slips once more with his nautical terms then the steward will not be responsible for the wanton bitch-slapping that will occur.

“Ship, sorry.” At least he seems remorseful. He shall not die this day. Tyrell blood will not be spilled. “A ship with a huge amount of very attractive men and women, many of which are far more glamourous, sexy, and daresay it interesting in the usual manner than I, but someone seems to be targeting me. Can I truly be the only one to find that slightly worrying?”

Varys regards him; tall, gangly, earnest-faced, cheekbones carved by the Gods. Idiotic. Entirely frustrating. He is blushing roses and ivory towers, ancient wormy tomes and the shyness of the terminally bookish.

“Darling,” and he attempts so very hard to sound interested in such a trifling dilemma. Really, does the crew, and Varys is both protective and scathing of his peers, think he has nothing important to be getting on with? “I honestly think that you should take that precious backside of yours and go and bloody well get shagged. It would do you an absolute world of good. Now run along, there’s a decent chap, and find your  _ bubelah _ before whoever is sending those notes comes to their senses.”

He sweeps off, leaving a gawping and hectic-cheeked Tyrell in his wake. There are more pressing issues to deal with, such as international pot brownie smugglers.

Even if some bugger stole the bloody skeleton key.

Murder is too good for some people. Some people just wish to see the world burn.

 

* * *

 

The boat (ship) is docked, the sticky wetness of the Iron Isles brooding broodily before them, and Willas is also brooding. Much brooding is had betwixt man and landmass. It does not suit him (unlike the Isles, it suits them perfectly); he does not possess the requisite elegant sorrow or maudlin pout, is too sensible to sigh softly and gaze to the horizon whilst pondering the mysteries of life. Elbows upon the brass rail of the observation deck, he watches each passenger disembark and wonders who on earth is sending him love poetry. There are a few ladies who pique an interest; Mrs. Stark is a handsome woman, quite lovely and sensible, and young Miss Stark is very pretty. Perhaps his secret admirer is Sansa Stark, with pristine skin that looks like she polishes herself with silk cloth, and hair that glows like the flames of the ancient dragons of Valyria? The blush grows as he imagines her, and she really is very young and beautiful, far too young for Professors of Ancient and Early-Modern Westeros and Essos, pulling him wordlessly into her cabin. Sansa Stark, refined and glorious,  giving him, as Varys recommended, a bloody good seeing to. Sansa Stark naked. With nipples and everything.

Oh Gods. But no, he will never be that lucky.

Dark clouds gather. Rain spatters in a most inordinately unfair wet sort of way. As the sick idea of this being a trick by Margaery for some yet unknown slight, weather decides to reflect mood like in all novels written by young women of a certain social status in the last two hundred years.

It all goes a little _ Jayne Eyre _ . Stair rods. Angry grey skies. Depression. All that is needed is an angry burn victim upon the warpath, but thankfully Sandor Clegane is nowhere near.

It must be Margie! The absolute, and as often happens when Willas’ brain hits a certain level of ire, he switches into High Valyrian. Others (students) rather like winding him up, just to see the staid, unflappable man shrieking insults in the tongue of the ancient kings. Someone (a student) even uploaded a video of it to  _ WhoTube _ . Willas’ class numbers increased exponentially.

“You look thoughtful,” someone murmurs in a voice like leather and wet velvet, wrapping a waterproof about Willas’ tweedy shoulders.

“ _ Skoros morghot vestri _ ?” It just slips out.

“Not today.” The man is dark-eyed and caramel skinned, his shirt is more unfastened than buttoned up, and that smirk could convince the most angelic of beings to consider a career in good old-fashioned sin. Soaking wet. Dripping, even. He does not seem to care, like some panther splashing about in an azure pool somewhere dangerously exciting. No one is quite sure what he does aboard the  _ Storm’s End _ , apart from possibly provide sexual favours for a wide range of guests and crew alike. Possibly a magician with his impressive penis as the wand?

“Sorry Oberyn, hard couple of days. Got a problem that keeps me up all night, just can’t shake it off. I’ve tried turning my hand to it, but-” He shrugs, turning and resting against the rail. “Can’t quite get to the crux of the matter.”

“Crotch of the matter?” 

“Crux.”

“Ah, my apologies, sweet boy. I was a little distracted.” 

“Someone is sending me poetry. Me, Oberyn. Poetry. Blatantly copied from the  _ Harrenhal Book of Verse _ , and I’ve indexed them against the keyword ‘rose.’”

“Every rose has its thorn,” points out the Dornishman helpfully. “Just like every night has its dawn.” He catches Willas’ exceedingly blank look and grins, even wider, all perfect white teeth and sodden curling hair. Even in this weather Oberyn’s hair remains dishevelled just-so. “It is a song. Do you not know it?”

“I am just thinking ‘oh Gods, even Oberyn is at it.’” 

“I am always at it, sweet boy,” he murmurs, expression heated and something else Willas can’t quite calculate. As if Oberyn is imagining a large and thick juicy steak, or a spiced knockwurst, or something very meaty that he wishes to sink his flawless teeth into. “It is my usual state of being. At it.”

Willas sighs again, half-hanging over the railing and lost in fretting. “If you can think of who might be sending me this poetry, please say? I’m sure it’s either Margaery or some crazed psychotic language student who wishes to drive me absolutely barking due to disagreeing with my theses.”

He does not see Martell’s reaction; the rictus of hands into claws, the chocolate-eyed glare, as if Oberyn wishes to give the idiot a really good shake. A mouthed ‘for fuck’s sake.’ A pleading look to the Gods as if to beg them for some sort of divine intervention. Wet. Gorgeous. Rain pounding his bare chest, with the merest hint of a dusky nipple peeking from water-slick silk. Trousers clinging even more. Staring straight at the oblivious Tyrell who sighs even deeper and doesn’t realise how his precarious leaning over the rail is exposing an acre of endless leg (one of which works properly, the other not recovered from an unpleasant but spectacular archaeology accident involving buried treasure, booby traps, Fedora hats, and a madman with a bullwhip) and a neat and perfectly formed academic backside snug in dark fawn corduroy.

Willas notices nothing unless it is a) long dead b) other historians being bitchy or c) long dead historians being bitchy. Oh, and dragons.

Honestly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varys' key is totally up for grabs if anyone wants to run with it.


	13. #NotThatNewlywed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By FrozenSnares

The early morning sunlight just barely seeped in through the small window their room afforded, and Robb watched as his wife two times over now piled her hair on top of her head before letting it fall back down on her bare back. He smirked, wondering if she still thought he was asleep, if she thought he would _want_ to sleep during what’s now been almost a month-long honeymoon. Myrcella let out a soft sound as she stretched both arms straight up, and Robb took the opportunity to slip a finger into one of the ringlets that had been perfectly made while she was sleeping. He tugged lightly on it, making her turn toward him.

“Well, good morning to you,” she said. Myrcella smiled at him, running a hand across his stomach. “How was your sleep?”

“Better with you beside me,” Robb replied. He slipped his hand down to her hip trying to drag her closer. “Come give your husband a kiss.”

Myrcella moved away clicking her tongue gently. “Oh, I know where that’s going to lead,” she said. “And we were supposed to have breakfast with your parents today.”

Robb groaned, sitting up and wrapping his arms around her before she could escape. He pressed his mouth into her shoulder, letting the stubble of his beard scrape at her skin. “And how many of my siblings do you think are having breakfast with my parents on this trip?” Robb asked back. “They’re off having the time of their lives. Hell, we might even have more weddings coming up soon.”

Leaning into his chest, Myrcella drew patterns up his arms, lightly tracing her fingers over him. “And what makes you say that?”

“Come on, Cella,” Robb said, stifling a snort. “I don’t think Sansa’s paid for a meal since the reception because of _complements from the chef_ , Rickon’s been glued to his phone every moment he isn’t chasing after your cousin, and—”

“Rickon’s going after Shireen?” Myrcella cut him off. “He does know she lives onboard, right?”

“I honestly don’t care,” Robb said, pulling her back down to the pillows. Myrcella giggled as her hair flew over his face, but Robb expertly moved it away, bringing his wife back into view. “The only thing I care about is getting what I want for breakfast, and _that_ doesn’t require leaving this room.”

Any chastisement Myrcella might have had for her husband died when he brought her in for a kiss, hand cupped to her jaw. Robb half-rolled over her, pinning her to the mattress and sucking on her lower lip. She sighed contentedly, draping her arms around his neck to pull him closer. Robb’s hands drifted down her body, gently tracing her sides before moving up to knead at her breasts. Myrcella gasped into his mouth, hooking a leg over his to pull him down against her. Robb nearly collapsed on top of his wife, only just stopping himself with a hand to the mattress.

“A little warning would be nice,” he said, kissing her nose.

Myrcella used his distraction to get under his jaw, kissing over his jugular and scraping her teeth down to his shoulder. Robb groaned, putting a fist in her hair to pull her back to his mouth. Sliding his tongue over hers, he kissed her hard as he slowly spread her legs with his knees, moving in between them. He kissed his way down her body, brushing the soft skin of her stomach with his nose before stopping at her hip. Sliding his hands around her ribs, Robb focused on dragging his tongue into the small divots that dropped into her pelvis.

With a strangled moan, Myrcella pushed her hips up, earning herself a small chuckle from her husband. “Less warning is, I think, much better,” she said, seeing the mischievous sparkle in his icy blue eyes.

Robb smirked at her, drawing his arms down to prop himself up on his elbows between her thighs. “No warnings mean no complaining,” he said, and before Myrcella could ask what he meant, he very deliberately licked the length of her as slowly as possible.

Biting her lip, Myrcella stared up at the ceiling. Robb glanced up to watch her chest heave with her breaths before he did it again. This time, her hips moved up to meet him, forcing the speed. Laughing, Robb dug his mouth against her, letting his tongue move everywhere he could reach, even planted as he was at her core. When she started to whimper, he moved up to suck at her, bringing a hand up to help her along with a release.

Her hands fisted tight in his hair, and he increased the pressure, keeping her going until she was teetering on the edge. Just before she could hit her peak, Robb pulled away all at once, and Myrcella actually growled at him.

“Asshole,” she mumbled. He knew that it was supposed to be a sharp accusation, that she was frustrated and mad at him for doing it, but with her voice so weak and her body so flushed, it sounded almost endearing. With pleading eyes, she tried to drag him back down again, to make him finish what he started.

Robb had other plans, though. He crawled back over his wife, dropping kisses to her stomach and breasts while she slipped a hand between them. Before she could manage herself, Robb snagged her wrists and pulled her arms up over her head. “Now, now,” he said slowly. “I thought you wanted this to be a surprise.”

Shoving his shoulder, Myrcella forced him onto his back. Very intentionally, she sat over the length of him, rolling her hips to find the friction solely for herself. Robb’s grin quickly faded away to a light hiss before he started bucking up at her.

“That goes two ways,” she moaned out, placing her hands flat on his chest.

He was trying harder now, waiting for the point in her movement where it would be easiest to slip into of her, but she was only _just_ avoiding it, and he’d either have to take matters into his own hands or beg. Robb knew which his wife preferred.

“Cella… _please_ , Cella,” he moaned out. “Gods, I just want to—oh, _fuck_.”

“Hm?” Myrcella replied, sweeping her hair over a shoulder. She paused to lean down close to him. “I can’t hear you.”

Robb placed a hand firmly on her hip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh. “I going to need you to finish what you started, babe,” he said, tipping her chin up to kiss her full on the mouth. “Or I’m going to finish before we get to the good part.”

Myrcella laughed, sitting up again. “I know you can do better than that,” she said, but on the next slide of her hips, she moved closer and closer to the point where he could make things happen on his own.

Angling his hips with hers, Robb watched the expression on his wife’s face change entirely to pleasure when he rubbed against her. She still continued on, and he timed a roll against her to beg entrance, to make her shudder. There was another pause when he was perfectly aligned, and Robb held her hips as he pushed up into her. Myrcella’s mouth dropped open before she bit at her lip, and Robb started bucking up into her, watching at she took in shallow breaths in time to his thrusts. Encouraging her along, Robb held her hips and moved her over him, getting deeper with ever pull.

If he knew her as well as he did, then this wasn’t going to last much longer before the two of them needed extra friction for their release. Again, Myrcella whimpered loudly, and Robb took the cue. He easily flipped them back over, pulling her legs up over his shoulders before pushing into her with very measured strokes. He paused just a bit at his deepest, making sure she could feel where they were connected before pulling out to do so again.

Myrcella grabbed him by the ears, kissing him roughly before her nails dug into his back. “Oh, please, baby,” she whimpered. “ _Please_ , more.”

Kissing her back briefly, Robb sped up, the force of their tryst threatening to let everyone on the ship know that there was a very happily married couple on board. At the very least, he was certain that the person next door would have some complaints. Still, he fixated on his wife, keeping up his tempo and rhythm until her nails dug in with more force than before. Then, he could feel the whole of her pulsing around him, and he came with her in a series of short, disjointed thrusts.

Very slowly, he righted her on the bed again, letting her legs stretch back out and rubbing his hands over them. Myrcella hummed full of satisfaction when he kissed her again and again, sweeping his hands over the pink skin that was flushed from their activity. Slowly, he made his way over to their private bathroom, intent on filling the small tub for them. On his way, Robb kicked a small box out of their luggage, and he saw the familiar foil wrappers spill across the floor. Bending down he grabbed one before nearly paling.

“Hey, Cella,” he called, glancing over his shoulder at his wife.

Myrcella still had her eyes closed, a soft smile on her face as she hummed out a response.

“How do you feel about kids?”

Her eyes shot open at them, giving him a questioning look. In reply, he help up their forgotten supply of contraception. To his immense joy, she merely laughed, placing an arm over her eyes as the wave shook through her body.

“Well, I think now’s a good a time as any to start,” she said, smiling at him and letting her arm fall. Myrcella was entirely illuminated by sunlight now, her golden curls shining in the mid-morning light. Her smile was soft and inviting, even a little devious.

He had never seen a more beautiful sight.


	14. #brosbeforehoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert is drunk and Renly is a dutiful brother who is used to this.
> 
> chapter by bookhoor

“Renly, why doeshn’t Cershei love me anymore?”

Renly sighs. This conversation is one the two of them have had on a semi-regular basis for the past fifteen years.

“Aaand that’s my cue, big brother. No more drinks for you.”

“Renlyyyyy!” Robert bawls. He is drunk and red-faced, tears spilling out of his eyes and rolling into his magnificent beard. Renly self-consciously pats his own sparse facial hair.

“Robert, we’ve been over this. Cersei has never been good for you and the only reason you married her was so Joffrey wouldn’t be a bastard. She’s never loved you, and when you’re sober, you’ll remember that you don’t actually care that much.”

“Nooooo,” Robert bleats, slamming his fist on the bar. “I love her, Renly. I love her shooooo musch. She’sh the mother of my chil…my childs…my kidsh!”

Renly stops fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Robert hates Cersei when he’s sober, and loves her when he’s drunk, while Cersei hates Robert no matter her condition. Renly is pretty sure it’s only her fear of Tywin that keeps Cersei from filing divorce papers. That, and a healthy appetite for pool boys. Renly’s always assumed that Robert was aware of why Cersei keeps hiring new ones, but maybe not.

“I wannother drink.” Robert hiccoughs. “Makida double.”

Renly is definitely not going to make Robert a double of anything, except maybe an espresso.

Robert has seen him reaching for an espresso tasse, and pounds on the bar again. 

“I wannadrink! I donwanna coffee!”

Robert is starting to slur his words, and he sounds like Joffrey did before his all of his teeth grew in. He is still aware enough to notice Renly’s plan though, so Renly cedes to Robert’s demands and reaches for the special whiskey bottle. He keeps a bottle that has been pre-watered down, specifically for moments like this. For all that Robert claims to have a sophisticated palate, he has not once noticed the difference, and Renly has been doing this to Robert since he was a child, earning his allowance by acting as bartender for Robert’s college keggers.

Renly sets the glass in front of Robert, who is crying in earnest now. Tears are streaming down his face and dripping down his beard into his whiskey. Renly muses on how salty the whiskey will be, not that Robert will notice. Renly’s never been good with this, never knows what to say to Robert. He wants to call Stannis on the bridge, but the way Stannis has been acting lately, he isn’t sure that’s a good idea. Stannis might suggest the three of them go for a sauna, steam out the bad mojo. He might even start singing _Kumbaya My Lords_ , for Seven’s sake. He pulls his phone out and thumbs through his contacts, trying to figure out who would be the best help. His first thought is Myrcella, but he doesn’t want to interfere with her honeymoon. Cella and Robb have hardly left their suite and that’s where they belong right now. He hovers over Brienne’s number, but decides against it. She could certainly wrestle Robert into bed, where he belongs, but he thinks maybe Robert needs someone a bit more sensitive. He finally decides to text Shireen, his clever niece. 

Renly surreptitiously Snapchats a photo of Robert blubbering into his hands, and sends it to Shireen with the caption “HELP ME”. There is a reply image seconds later, Shireen with an eye-rolling emoji over her own eyes, captioned “we’re on our way”. Renly isn’t sure who the “we” is, but he’ll take any help he can get.

In the meantime, even if Robert won’t take one, Renly needs a damn espresso.


	15. #DutyAndSong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by FrozenSnares

The quarters were better than expected. At the very least, they provided my human with great assistance. My brothers and sisters were even welcome, which was greatly unexpected. Sometimes they don’t listen, though. I always listen. Master Bran asked for his crutches. Grey Wind didn’t respond, but I did. He needed clothes. Ghost looked out the window. I brought them.

But when it was time to leave, they all insisted on following him around. He is not their master. He is mine.

As such, I got the place of honor. I got to stand by his side and to accompany him about the strange vessel we were on. We were completely surrounded by water, but I was not afraid. I could swim _and_ safely bring my master to shore before Shaggydog even realized he was missing.

\--

The crowd could be better. At the very least, Meera was just lucky that she didn’t have to worry about tips with this gig. Her brother dutifully played along, and she sang to a smaller and smaller crowd every night. Sliding up onto the baby grand piano, Meera crossed her legs and leaned back, singing up to the ceiling. As per usual, the spotlight was blinding, and it probably made her look much paler than usual. She couldn’t even see the crowd like this.

Holding out the microphone, Meera finished her song. She turned to find her brother smiling at her, and she smiled back, listening to the riff he loved playing at the end of every song.

She announced the next song. By now, it was automatic. Completely scripted. Almost to the point of absolute boredom every night. She was just thankful for her mornings and afternoons off. That way, she could at least spy on all the people on board. They were much more unusual on this trip, and she thinks that the wedding party is most of it.

Halfway through the song, she hears a dog bark. Then, she misses a line. Recovering quickly, Meera glances sideways to Jojen, hoping that she’s not too far off. He’s already picked up with whatever line she was singing, but he’s chuckling down at the keys. It wasn’t everyday they got dogs at their shows.

With a bigger smile than usual, Meera finished her set. Jojen was still shaking with unheard laughter even as he plays through the nonsense mood music that will fade out in about five minutes.

He didn’t get that long, though. Not a minute later, there’s a loud bang on the keyboard. Meera glances over from her spot just off-stage, and she sees a silver dog running off with a few sheets of paper in their mouth. Meera suppressed her laugh. She knew that Jojen played well enough without music, but he seemed to be bent on laughing more than anything.

By far, this cruise was the most interesting based on this night alone.

\--

Nymeria should be punished. Or never given treats again. Or tummy rubs. I would never think to do such a thing. When Master Bran is out, we are his obedient servants. She should know that play time is for later. I dutifully sit at my master’s side, awaiting his word. He was too lenient sometimes, letting Nymeria and Shaggydog run amuck. Tonight was just like those times. Nymeria would be found later.

Master Bran rewards me with a pat to the head. I deserve it. I never run off. One of his crutches fell off the table, and I retrieved it without being asked. It might have been for Lady to do, but I didn’t need to be asked.

Ghost brought master a napkin. Master Bran doesn’t need a napkin, but Ghost is rewarded with pets nonetheless. I await command, though.

We were to sit still while inside. It is difficult enough with all six of my littermates, but I will behave for us all. Grey Wind and Ghost bit at each other. They wanted play time. Lady was asleep. Shaggydog has mysteriously vanished. It was solely up to me to care for Master Bran, but I am up for the task.


	16. #HotGuyHugsFTW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SnowWhiteKnight
> 
> Game of Hugs pt 2

It had been eight days since he first met the concierge known as Brienne. Eight days of attempting to hug her, at approximately ten attempts per day, meaning she had skillfully avoided his embrace eighty times, give or take an attempt per day. His ability to turn her ears red, however, would hit the mark every single time. He especially liked it when her whole face turned red. His pursuit was not without injury, and he had earned several bruises and a few slaps over those eight days. Worth it.

He had tried the direct approach at first.

“Wench! Give me a hug.”

“No.”

“Why not?” he said. “And you can call me ‘wench’ in return.”

“I’d rather eat live beetles. Mr. Jaime, I told you before, but maybe you don’t remember, as an employee of Storm's End Cruise Line, I am not to fraternize with our guests, no matter how _determined_ they are to ignore company policy.”

“Darn tootin’ I’m going to ignore it,” he said with a sly grin. “It’s an idiotic policy.”

He saw the clench of her jaw as she said through gritted teeth, “Mr. Jaime…”

“Wench.”

“You are insufferable.”

He crossed his arms over his puffed out chest and said with a smirk, “I’ll have you know that _plenty_ of people suffer my presence.” She stared at him. “Wait, that wasn’t what I meant...they enjoy being around me, damnit!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Jaime. I have work to do,” she said, turning away from him. He stepped up behind her and made to encircle her with his arms. He found himself being thrown to the floor instead. Slightly red faced from embarrassment, the huggable wench stood over him. “Please do not try that again. It will only end the same way and the captain doesn’t like it when I use judo on our guests. Good day, Mr. Jaime.”

**********

Most of the hugging attempts after that were sneaky. Or at least that was what he intended. Nine times out of ten she ended up catching him and performing some martial type stuff on him. The other one out of ten time was when someone else got in his way. Usually Tyrion, who teased him for obsessing about hugging the wench, but sometimes Cersei when she was chasing down one of the fellows from room service. She must really like his customer service skills.

Brienne the Huggable was quite the athlete and he even enjoyed watching her run away from him. She had a lovely derriere under those fitted slacks. Her slight waist beckoned to him, saying, “Please hug me!” That was usually followed up by her knuckles saying, “Back off!!!” First Mate Davos had him sign a waiver, saying that if he was going to pursue Miss Tarth, he didn’t want Captain Baratheon or anyone on Storm’s End being held responsible for the fallout.

“The gods help us if Ron Connington ever regains consciousness,” was all Mr. Davos said after Jaime had signed the contract. Who the fuck was this Connington and how could Jaime bring about his end? Later, he'd find out later. For now, he had a one-sided date with a punchy angel.

He wondered briefly if he was starting to like the way she hit him. He had never been that into it before with anyone else, but with this delightful wench, it was...not lovely, but not bad. He’d figure out the right word later.

He was stalking Brienne yet again, when he was bumped into from the side. The perpetrator nearly gave his hiding spot away, but he found it in his heart to forgive the poor sod when he saw they had dropped a key. Not just any key...a master key for the entire ship! _Skelly key! Yes, this will work out nicely._

**********

He cheered when the lock clicked open, then promptly shushed himself. Pocketing the key, he slipped into the room and shut the door firmly behind him. Brienne was passed out on the bed, the light still on and the book she had been reading still in her hand. In the time he had been watching her, he had noticed many things, one of which was that she worked way too hard. Running here and there, checking on this passenger and that passenger and hardly stopping from the time she got up to the time she went to bed. She had lived on sandwiches and protein shakes from what he saw, but through it all, she had a sparkle in her eye and a smile that was infectious. The hour was late, and his own antics had been tiring. Turning off the bedside lamp, he lay down next to her, and wrapped his arms around her waist as best he could. She would probably kick his ass in the morning

He knew she would probably kick his ass in the morning, but the absolute bliss of finally getting the hug he desired was worth all the beatings. He snuggled up to her and fell asleep, happy and content.

*********

He woke up alone the next morning, surprised that he was alive and in one piece. A note was on top of his phone. It read, “Idiot. Take the damn hug then. You can have one for every nice thing you do.” Jaime grinned and started plotting out nice things so he could earn himself lots of hugs.

He turned his phone on to check the time, but instead found a photo of himself snuggled up to Brienne on the lock screen. She wasn’t bad at taking selvies. Or was it selfies? Whatever, the photo was good. He switched it to his home screen instead, replacing the lock screen with a duck face photo of him and Tyrion from yesterday. It was tempting to post his victory on the FaceySpacey, but part of him wanted to keep this to himself. Possibly because it was the first thing Brienne had decided to give him. He was ok with being selfish with it. The next time he got a photo of them together, that one he would  _definitely_ post to the Tweeterverse. First things first, he needed to find some poor soul to help, because that would be a nice thing to do and that would earn him his first hug of the million trillion gajillion he planned on getting from his wench.


	17. #CasinoRoyale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregor falls in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL ABOARD THE GOOD CRACKSHIP WALDOR FREYGANE TOOOT TOOOT

Of all the casinos, on all the cruise ships, in all the seven kingdoms, she walked into his. Gregor watched a movie like that once, but he’s not going to be like Aemon in the movie, watching Naerys walking away. She has walked into his casino and his life, and he will do anything he can to keep her in both.

Gregor has never been sure love was real. His parents never seemed to love each other very much, and they definitely didn’t like each other very much. His doctor has told him that you can love someone without liking them, so he supposes he must love his brother. The feelings he has towards Sandor are not like the feelings he has toward the frothy confection walking towards him, though.

She is a vision in pink. She’s tottering towards him in little fluffy heeled flip flops, and she’s clutching a purse in front of her.

She opens her mouth, and Gregor knows for certain now that he is in love. Her voice comes out girlish and it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

“I’d like to place all my chips on red 21, please.”

He fumbles with the ball, but manages to get the wheel spinning and soon he and the object of his affection are both staring rapt as the ball and wheel spin merrily along. Gregor is not a gambler personally, but he has always liked the roulette table best of all the casino games he manages. It’s hypnotizing, and the sound of the ball clinking into place soothes his constant headaches.

She has won, and she is whooping with delight. He hopes she didn’t see his thigh jostle the table just enough to nudge the ball one more space over. 

She doesn’t seem interested in playing again, and he is suddenly terrified to see her standing up, readying to cash her chips and leave.

“you’rebeautifulandpinkcanibuyyoucake?”

She blinks, twice. Even her blinks are beautiful, like a cow in his father’s field. 

Oh great, he’s terrified her. He sometimes forgets which words go when and he’s too tall and he is tugging on his ear like he does when he’s anxious, when he feels her hand on his fist.

“I’d love to have cake with you,” she peers at his nametag, “Gregor. My name’s Walda.”

He lets her lead him out of the casino, stopping to turn the door sign to Closed. She takes him to the guest dining room and he is surprised to see his brother there, sitting awkwardly next to a redhead who is gesticulating wildly between him and two older looking people – her parents, he guesses. 

Time is passing and he doesn’t notice, he is so busy watching Walda speak. He thinks she has said something about her father and stepmother, and how she will use her casino winnings (only 10 dragons, Stannis frowns on exploitative casinos) to buy souvenirs for all of her siblings. He is sure he must have heard her wrong, she can’t possibly have 29 brothers and sisters. Occasionally she pauses to take another cake off the platter in front of them, and she encourages him to have some as well but she is all the sweetness he wants to consume.

Gregor has never been good at reading other people, but he desperately wants to believe that this is going well. Walda smiles every time she looks at him, and she is licking her fingers and he’s pretty sure that means she’s flirting and he wants to ask an expert but Oberyn is not around and Sandor is still sitting awkwardly only now the older man with him is talking to him and shaking a finger and even Gregor knows finger-shaking isn’t good.

Walda is waving at him, and he realises abashedly that he has zoned out and she’s been talking to him all this time. He mumbles an apology and she smiles again, that beautiful, secretive, Mona Lysa smile like in all the postcards. 

“I was asking if you’d like to have cake again tomorrow,” she repeats, and even Gregor knows that this is a good thing, and he smiles back and nods, and she kisses his cheek in response. She leaves then, leaves him to his tingling cheek and the smell of cake and lip gloss, and a sudden awareness of what love feels like.


	18. #noooooooo!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Chapter and picset by ZoeSong  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [](http://imgur.com/o8GzcBj)   
>    
>    
> 

  
~~  
  
  
Things were _not_ going Cersei’s way. Well, the wedding had, but the staff – and the guests – on this ship were just not up to par. Leave it to her lame-brained ex-husband (well, might-as-well-be-ex-husband) to think that his brother’s second-rate cruise operation could get things right. From the quarters and the amenities to the food and the wine, nothing was to Cersei’s liking. Well, maybe the wine.

But the people on board! Those Starks had brought the worst cast of characters she could imagine, mostly from their own family. With a daughter running off with plates of brownies and a son gallivanting around in a wheelchair with a pack of wolves, you’d think it was a circus! And then there was that uppity Catelyn snubbing her at the Captain’s table. The fool! The always honorable Starks were so oblivious that they didn’t even notice that their preciously perfect dove of a daughter was sneaking off to make out with the shouty chef in every nook and cranny of the ship. Even Stannis himself was acting very strangely, saying weird things and looking slightly off balance most of the time. It was a wonder that this ship hadn’t run aground.

And where was Joff? Now that Myrcella was married, Cersei had no one to girl-pal around with. Tommen was running around the decks with some low-life kids playing “Zombies and Maidens,” when he wasn’t in the pool making a little fool of himself playing, “Lomas Longstrider.” Cersei had endured _hours_ of childish voices screeching, “Lomas!” “Longstrider!” She had almost pulled out her hair. Joff had _promised_ to spend some quality time with her during the cruise. They had talked of make-overs, massages – a full day at the spa. But Joff had ditched her to hang out with that very ill-mannered Tyrell girl. 

Now Cersei sat by the pool making eyes at a slightly pudgy, but good-looking pool boy. Oddly enough, he only smiled shyly back at her. Not the reaction she’d imagined. When she beckoned and he approached, he said, “I’m not Gendry.” Confused, she’d sent him to find the steward to get her another drink. What was wrong with young people today?

Then a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls came gamboling up to the pool, peeled off their already skin-tight t-shirts and skimpy cover-ups (how _those_ could be called cover-ups!), and plastered themselves around the edge of the pool. Her peace was shattered. 

She re-positioned herself in her deck chair to better display her legs, and tried to stare the girls down. The trouble was, they didn’t look her way. And worse, all the men at the pool – who had frustratingly shown such scant interest in her that she’d decided they must be gay – now suddenly began ogling the teenagers. She tried to look more closely to see who exactly the girls were, but without her glasses she couldn’t quite tell. Probably that annoying Tyrell girl and her idiot cousins. Who had invited the Tyrells anyway? They weren’t on _her_ guest list, that’s for sure. And where was Joff? Had they tossed him overboard? 

She heard more giggling and saw that the girls were amusing themselves tossing rose petals into the pool. Cersei rolled her eyes.

Worse (if it could BE worse), she spotted her brothers approaching. She didn’t need her glasses to tell it was them. You might as well call them Dunk and Egg – if Dunk was tall dopey blonde with a sweet tooth that could land him in the ICU, and Egg was a sharp-witted Little Person with an ego the size of Essos. They spent every vacation together and were attached at the hip. Well, not literally. 

Her twin brothers were as unalike as night and day. Tyrion was short and stocky, and Jaime was tall and lanky – people loved to jokingly ask if they were identical twins. It made her want to scream. Of _course_ they weren’t, you idiots! Why did everyone think twins were such a big deal? Especially _these_ twins. She couldn’t stand either one of them. What had her parents been thinking? She had been an only child for eight glorious years and they _had_ to have another one! And then got two? And boys! And doted on them and ignored her? 

But her darling Cella adored her uncles, so of course they _had_ to be invited. And her father wouldn’t have it any other way. Tywin rarely went anywhere without his beloved sons. 

Tyrion sauntered up to her and touched his forelock at her. “Sister. Enjoying the sun?”

She just glared at him. “I _was_.” 

He laughed and hollered for Jaime to come over. “The view’s marvelous.” He promptly sat down in the chair next to her and began to ogle the girls. 

In a huff, she grabbed her floral pool cover-up, flung it around herself, picked up her wine glass, and flounced off, brushing against Jaime as she went. “Watch out, you lout!”

He waved a peppermint stick at her as she blew by. _Idiot. He’ll be at the bottom of the pool needing fished out in two minutes_. 

Cersei hurried past the concierge desk, refusing to smile back at the perpetually smiling oaf of a woman standing there ready to help at a moment’s notice. As if she was on a mission. “Can I help you, ma’am? Would you like me to find your daughter for you? Or your son?” 

Cersei ignored her and headed out to the hallway, hearing the echo of “I’m coming, sir!” in the oaf woman’s voice, a huge splash, and a squeal as the Tyrell girls got soaked. _Good, I hope it ruined their hair_.

She stormed upstairs. She’d just _had_ to be alone. On the way she nearly ran into Robert stumbling drunkenly towards the stairs. She made a sharp right turn away from him and hurried down the hall as he called, “Cersheiiiiii! My loooooove!” Renly and Shireen and some wild-haired red-headed boy flew past her and went careening after him. 

She shook her head in disbelief. Did that man really think she would ever want him again? She had hardly wanted him in the first place! It was her father – and mother – who thought Robert was such a catch. Again, what had they been thinking? All business (that was Tywin, money, money, money) and status. “You’ll be a woman of influence,” he’d said. “You’ll have a house like a castle and all the fancy cars and clothes you could want,” her mother had promised. And Robert was handsome and fit then. A little pressure from her parents, charm from Robert, a lot of wine, and she was married. Twenty years, three children, six thousand liters of wine later and it was over.

She reached her stateroom and let herself in with a sigh of relief. As she passed the mirror in the hallway, she stopped to admire her reflection. She looked surprisingly well for a woman with three nearly-grown children. She pulled off her cover-up (THIS was a cover-up) and gazed at her maillot-covered form. She was always MUCH more sleek in a one-piece. These ridiculous spaghetti-strap bikinis that those teenagers called bathing suits were ridiculous. One had to have class. 

She took one last glance and, her mood improved, wandered out to the balcony. There she poured herself more wine and sank into the chair overlooking the ocean. Why had she ever left her stateroom?

She stared out at the sea and let the rhythm of the waves lull her. This was the life. 

There was a knock at the door.

Cersei groaned. It had better not be Robert! If she had to endure one more drunken, slobbery kiss from that man, she was going to push him overboard. She pondered that for a moment. Nah, it would take two or three of her to hoist _him_ over the rail. 

She tiptoed to the door and peeked through the peephole. She drew back in alarm. A partial view of a dark-haired bearded man turned slightly away from her. Damn that Robert! She’d have to call security to remove him. But then there was another knock and she heard her daughter’s voice. Had the newly re-married newlyweds come up for air?

It seemed they had. She opened the door to let Myrcella and Robb in. They came in and stood in the hallway of the cabin holding hands. 

“Darling! It seems like you’ve been away forever – like a prisoner held in a foreign land for years!” Cersei hugged Cella zealously, breaking her daughter’s grip on her husband’s hand.

“Oh, mother, don’t be so dramatic, it’s only been a couple of days.” She giggled and pulled away, rubbing up against Robb.

“Well, it’s wonderful to see you – it’s been a nightmare without you. Joff and Tommen both ditched me and there are Tyrells popping up like weeds all over the ship.”

“Well, we can’t stay long, we are going to dinner. But we came to tell you some news.”

“News? That you’re getting married? Again?” Cersei laughed hysterically.

“No, second time seems to be the charm.” Robb pressed himself against Myrcella this time.

“I can’t hear any news without wine.” She filled up her wine glass again and turned to them. “Oh, how rude I’m being. Will you have some?” She searched about for clean glasses. There had been some this morning.

“No, mother, I won’t be having any wine. Robb might like to toast with you, though.”

Cersei stared uncomprehending at her daughter. “Toast with me, what for?”

“We’re pregnant! You’re going to be a grandmother!”

Cersei gasped, stumbled, and saw her life pass before her eyes and her image in the mirror, as old and gray, fat and wrinkled as the Tyrell matriarch, as she sank to the floor. “Noooooooo!” 

 

~~

 

Cersei awoke in the chair on her balcony well after dark. She couldn’t remember getting there. The last thing she remembered was…Myrcella, Robb, an announcement. No, it couldn’t be.

There was a knock at the door. What if she didn’t answer it? Maybe the announcement would go away.

Someone was letting themselves in with a master key. “Mother? I hope she’s all right. Just wait here for a second in case she’s….”

Myrcella came through the stateroom and found her on the balcony. “Oh, _there_ you are. Are you all right? We’ve been calling and texting you. You were supposed to meet us for dinner and you didn’t show up – didn’t answer your phone.”

“Oh, darling, I’ve just been so…Wait. You were just here, weren’t you?”

“No. We were downstairs at the Captain’s table having dinner. Like we planned.”

“We planned dinner?”

“Of course, don’t you remember, you asked for that special red wine from Lys – and you were right, it was great! When you didn’t answer my text about _that_ , I knew something was wrong.” 

Robb had come in, and in the distance Cersei could just make out Jaime and Tyrion hovering by the door.

“Wait, wine? Should you be drinking wine?”

“Why not? I’m of age.”

“But you’re pregnant! I may be a lush, but even I know you shouldn’t drink while you’re pregnant!”

“What? What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant – we’ve only been married for a couple of weeks!”

Cersei looked from Myrcella’s face to Robb’s and back again. What was going on? 

“You must have been dreaming. But it’s nice to know that you are looking forward to being a grandmother.” Myrcella beamed and gave Robb a knowing look.

Cersei just stared. 

 

~~  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Lomas Longstrider is a famous scribe and traveler of Westerosi origin. Lomas traveled the world and wrote two famous books, _Wonders_ and _Wonders Made by Man_ , where he catalogued sixteen wonders he encountered in his travels. Tyrion has read, and often quotes these books, much to Jaime’s delight and Cersei’s annoyance.
> 
> You can read more about Lomas Longstrider[ here.](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lomas_Longstrider)
> 
> Dunk and Egg are a hedge knight and his squire who travelled all over Westeros having adventures. Their stories are told in three novels (so far) as prequels to A Song of Ice and Fire. I have not read them, but they sit patiently waiting on my iPad for the next summer vacation trip. From what I have read, they are not ridiculous figures, but rather noble ones. But Cersei doesn’t know that nor does she care; to her, if Tyrion goes around quoting from their adventures, then they must be stupid. 
> 
> For more about them and links to information about the novellas, click [here.](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dunk_and_Egg)
> 
> Wine consumption trivia – the U.S. edges out France in wine consumption by volume. The U.S. thanks you, Jillypups! ;) [The things you find while trying to look up Game of Thrones trivia (such as which wine Cersei favors)]. For the article on this and a cool info-graphic comparing beer and wine consumption world wide, click [here.](http://www.usnews.com/news/blogs/data-mine/2014/10/02/drinking-data-shows-us-at-the-top-by-volume-but-europe-dominates-per-capita)
> 
> Cover-ups – My apologies; that’s a personal shopping gripe. I had a feeling that Cersei would be as frustrated by the lack of truly covering cover-ups on the market as I am. 
> 
> ~~  
>   
> Just for fun – Tyrion (from GOT S6 trailer):
> 
> Tyrion: Dragons do not do well in captivity.
> 
> Missandei: “How do you know this?” 
> 
> Tyrion: “That’s what I do. I drink and I know things.”  
>   
> ~~  
> 


	19. #ThankYou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Chapter and picset by ZoeSong 
> 
> Picset at the end so as not to spoil (careful!)  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  For Jillypups and FrozenSnares  
>   
> 

  
~~

 

Rickon and Shireen had looked everywhere that Rickon had been, but could not find her father’s skeleton key. 

“I’m sorry, Shireen. I should have given it back.” 

Shireen giggled. “Good thing Dad doesn’t know that anyone ever found it! Oh well, let’s just have some fun. Wanna see more of the ship?”

“Sure!” 

They dashed off down the hall and Shireen gave Rickon the grand tour. As they went, they traded TWD trivia and talked about what a real zombie apocalypse would be like. 

“What if we were on the ship and there were walkers coming after us? Where would we go?” Rickon’s eyes were wide with excitement. 

“I know!” Shireen grabbed his hand and led him down to the hold, where they sneaked about and pretended to hide from advancing walkers among the various crates and boxes, with one of them occasionally slipping away, hanging back, jumping out, and trying to scare the other. They climbed up on a big crate and reenacted the scene where Glenn and Nicholas were surrounded by walkers, only in their version Rickon leaped off to attract the walkers and draw them away so Shireen could escape. “Oh, Glenn, you’re so noble!” she cried. 

They looked at all the fancy products that Shireen’s dad had stored for future cruises, then wandered a bit and came to a classic car. 

“Wow, that’s a beauty. Whose is it?”

“My dad’s. He’s going to put it an automobile show when we get back.”

“It’s wonderful.” 

They circled the car and admired its lights, its trim, and its smoothly curving fenders. Now they were standing at the far end of the car, admiring the attached trunk.

“You want to climb inside it?”

“Won’t your dad mind?”

“Nah, not if we’re careful.”

Shireen had ventured to take Rickon’s hand and they were about to start around to the side of the car when a sudden “slap” sound came from the car. They jumped back, startled, and Shireen gave a little shriek. They put their arms around each other and stared. And then they saw it. 

A strange, rotting hand was greasing its way across the fogged up window of the car.

“There’s something in there!” Shireen screamed. 

“Run!” Rickon shouted.

They grabbed hands and ran for their lives.

 

~~

 

“What was that?”

“I thought it was you.”

“Not me, I was busy trying to lick all the brownie crumbs off of you.” 

“Ah, well, probably nothing.” Stannis reached up to his lover’s forehead and picked another crumbly bit of brownie off his sweaty brow and popped it into his mouth. “Wanna go again? You can play with my gear shift if you want.”

Davos rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long night. But it was a great ride. 

 

~~  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/cOeJeqf)  
>   
>  My chapter title is taken from the title of Episode 3 of Season 6 of _The Walking Dead_ , from which the infamous Glenn and Nicholas scene is reenacted by Rickon and Shireen (included in the picset). 
> 
> The picture of Kerry Ingram with scary make-up on is from her tumblr posting a couple of Halloween's ago; she called it, "Dead School Girl." So I guess our depiction of Shireen isn't too far from the mark. She probably enjoyed filming her character's "burning."
> 
> The car used in the Titanic was a 1912 Renault Coupe DeVille. In looking for pictures for my picset, I ran across multiple articles about the car, which apparently really did go down with the Titanic. A couple of the articles are [here](http://www.carlustblog.com/2012/04/the-car-that-is-on-titanic.html) and [here.](http://blog.hemmings.com/index.php/2010/11/30/hemmings-find-of-the-day-1912-renault-coupe-deville/)  
>    
> [](http://imgur.com/BasCgqI)  
>   
>   
> p.s. It was fun to discover, while searching for photos for picsets, that I had overlooked that I have known Stephen Dillane's work since the series _John Adams_ came out -- he played Thomas Jefferson. I didn't recognize him from that. And I ran across this hilarious photo of a role he played as well. _Alas poor Yorick, I knew you well…_
> 
> [](http://imgur.com/khqoLJ9)   
>    
> 


	20. #TheTidesofPassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre writes erotica.
> 
> by bookhoor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs* Look, just...I don't even know.

_Tormund Giantscock was living up to his name. Selimandre writhed beneath him as Tormund’s massive tentacle wound its way up Selimandre’s viscous clamshell. Within moments, Tormund and Selimandre had both reached climactic heights, their screams of joy mingling in the air._

Melisandre sat back in her chair, looking proudly at her typewriter. There must be something in the ocean air, she thought to herself, lighting a cigarillo. Her inner muse was full of creativity these days; this newest manuscript was going to be be her best work yet. She’d be back at the top of the bestseller’s list for sure, she just knew it. Her bestselling work so far had been _The Passion of the Sands_ , which had sold out of shops throughout Dorne, at least, before readers realised that it was about actual literal sand and the places it winds up, and not fiery and men women born out of wedlock.

_Selimandre had never experienced pleasure so euphoric before. Tormund was pulling orgasm after orgasm from her, like an octopus expels ink. The feeling of his cockles pushing in and out of her oyster was positively quiver-inducing. With every thrust, his throbbing flesh jabbed at the luminescent pearl peeking out of her oyster shell._

Melisandre sucked on her cigarillo deeply, exhaling with satisfaction. Her publisher had tried telling her that there was no longer a market for nature-themed erotica, but she knew better. Admittedly, her last novel hadn’t done so well, but even she had to acknowledge that _Alpine Passions_ wasn’t her best work. The world was just not ready for women-direwolf relations. This one, though. _The Tides of Passion_ was her working title, and she already had ideas for two more in the series. She was especially looking forward to hearing Wyman’s reaction to this book’s theme. His publishing house logo was a mermaid holding an open book, which is what had inspired her this time around. She thought Wyman would appreciate it, but you never knew with men like him. She'd gotten her start as his "editing assistant", and he had seemed flattered with her first manuscript, _His Plump Passions_ , even if he was less plump and more, well, too fat to sit on a horse.

_Tormund was on top of Selimandre, his seasnake plunging in and out of her bearded mussel. She felt as limp as a squid as she lay there with Tormund atop her, until with one deft move, Tormund flipped her over so that she hovered over him. She lowered herself onto his electric eel, shocks pulsating up her spine as she thrashed about like a net full of fish hauled overboard. His final climax shot through her so intensely that she was propelled off of him and across the room, where she lay panting as his essence leaked out of her like water vapour out of a whale's blowhole._

Melisandre pulled the last page out of the typewriter and added it to the manuscript sitting on the table. She wasn’t finished, but she was booked for a tour of a nearby island, and she has her eye on the bearish fellow leading the tour. She stood up, hiking up her skirt and tugging down her sweater, making sure the best of her assets were on display. With one final satisfied look at her manuscript, she sauntered out of her cabin.


	21. #FreshlyBaked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By AsbestosMouth. In which Theon has more brownies (presuming Shouty Chef was otherwise engaged) because wouldn't the others be stale by now? I take baked goods very seriously, dammit.

* * *

 

***David Attenborough narrates***

 

And here we see the Alpha Martell in his natural habitat, stalking the corridors of the immense floating vessel with the grace and ease of a creature in his prime. Sleek, aware, supreme in the knowledge of being the top of the food chain, he moves with the characteristic swagger of the dominant male. Other lesser mammals may quail in the presence of such an example of the _Martellus Oberyn,_ the lesser relative of the more known _Martellus Doran_ ; indeed a common or garden Gendry, sorry, Payne slips by unheeded, safe in the knowledge that he is not what the Martell wishes to prey upon this day.

Suddenly he pauses, head turning to scent the air, as if aware of lunch or love close at hand.

Like many of his species, this Martell does not practice monogamy; it is quite usual for each animal to entertain several others within its lair, mating with the usual impressive diligence and enthusiasm for which the Martell is renowned. Unlike others, sexual appetite is shared between the sexes, with the female quite as rapacious as the male.

Ah, he has spotted his prize.

A duller and summer-coated Tyrell, having shed his outer _accoutrements_ , stands alone, gathering sustenance for the long water-based migration ahead. Mostly existing upon tea, baked goods, and sandwiches, the Tyrell considers the blends of the former with a practiced and discerning eye, unaware of being watched.

The Martell prowls forward, eyes fixed upon the other and lips parting. Is this a mate or a meal? Will blood be spilt, or another, more potent substance?

Ah, and there we are. It is obvious that these two are old friends. Hands are pressed in greeting, heads bobbing, but the Martell does not dull his mating display. He twitches to accentuate chest and rump, to demonstrate his physical vigour, but the Tyrell does not seem receptive to this obvious overture. Perhaps this Tyrell is not yet in season? The Martell, however, is known for tenacity. This will be a slow chase over a number of days or weeks, of chance meetings and further temptation. Depending upon the Martell’s skill, it is indeed a possibility mating will occur at a time and place equitable for both parties.

 

* * *

  
  
“Gendry.”

“I’m not Gendry.”

“Podrick. Name badge, dear. All times. Remember the mix ups that we have. I really should order one of you to dye your hair; you would look rather edible with a Baratheon Gold streak.”

Varys revels in making others nervous. Power corrupts, and he loves it absolutely. Podrick is a sweet young man, with a sturdily impressive build promising comfort and not speed, and Varys has idly wondered when testing his downstairs’ resolve about not rising to the occasion about being the willing filling in a Gendry/Podrick sandwich. Even that thought does not stir his flaccidity to rampant interest. Not even Khal Drogo makes serpents awake from the eternal slumber these days. Not even being the target of a Stark boys gangbang allows for the merest hint of interest from his nethers. Not that Varys minds; lust and sex merely obscures his true hunger for influence and the Good of _Storm’s End_. Far more important than unhygienic fumblings that ruin sheets and associations that mean having to scrub the entire cabin with a vinegar and bleach solution. He is aware of the volatility of the mixture, but Varys, being Varys, is adept at dangerous chemical interactions. It has only exploded once. Never more than once. Even chemicals fear Varys’ wrath.

Pod and Gendry are far too young, much too innocent, and Cersei Bloody Lannister was eyeing one of them at the poolside with a predatory leer. Poor boy, whichever one it is. that the old besom leches upon; she is riddled to the eyeballs with a combination of HRT and Botox. Badly. Varys thinks she should sue her cosmetic surgeon for the travesty that is her forehead.

He briefly imagines the horror of sexual intercourse viz. the ex Mrs. Baratheon, and delicately shudders. Sandy vaginas and handcuffs leap horrifically to mind. Varys has slept with some extremely poor choices in his distant and murkily tragic past that is never talked of since he is Varys, but none as awful as Cersei Bloody Lannister. Some not quite as butch, either. She is the sort that would take a man’s testes and fashion them into a cunning pair of earrings. Why? Because she is a heinous example of bitchery who emasculates wherever she can. Poor Bobby. Great beard. Sexy when not drunk.

Varys likes bears of all kinds. He is democratic like that, even if he believes life should be, obviously, a dictatorship. Especially when that ship needs a captain who is not off his face on dope.

Not that Varys hates Cersei. She is merely an annoying blip upon his radar. She is beneath his contempt and as thick as whatever comes out of the backside of cows, but for the good of all mankind he wishes to purge the earth of her very presence. Napalm, preferably. Quite a natural reaction, given the circumstances, the demands, the immoveable foundation stains upon her pillow, the endless wine quaffing. Really, possibilities of shortages abound.

He sweeps past Podrick, shining white and lily of the valley today, always nice to keep one’s scents on a rotation for added wow factor.

Stops.

Turns his head, the essence of a bald meerkat. Sixth sense. Again, the product of an awful and tortured past never mentioned because, obviously, this is Varys, and he cunningly shrugged off the melancholia with drag, seriously good contouring, an impressive array of psychedelics and cocaine, and magnificently debauched sex with a series of attractive men whose names he cannot quite remember.

The good old days. Sometimes he wonders if he should introduce Madame Varyssa to the Captain, but in Stannis’ current drug-induced stupor that may prove slightly ill-advised.

However. He stares, nostrils twitching.

A brownie stares back, tauntingly. Half-nibbled. Clutched in the professorial hand of one Willas Tyrell.

 

* * *

  
  
“Would you like a bit, Oberyn?” This is lovely! Willas beams, sunshine and roses bright upon his cheekbones, looking ten years younger and therefore almost illegal in several Essosian countries. Thoughts of stalkers are clean gone from his mind; he feels like a happy cloud (something cheerful like an altocumulus) in the kiss-whisper of a summer zephyr. “I can put it in your mouth, if you like? I’m sure you’d love to have a taste.”

Oberyn swallows, perspiring quite fetchingly. Willas doesn’t know why. Oberyn is pretty, he decides, but not pretty. What is the manly word for pretty? Grr, pretty?

“You are not wearing a tie, sweet boy. Your top button is undone. I can see your...collarbone.” Why does he sound half-strangled? Maybe there are stranglers about? Horses get strangles. Do horses have tonsils?

“Do horses have tonsils?”

“I am unsure.”

“I have tonsils.” He giggles, because absolutely everything is marvellous and hilarious and super wonderful. He decided not to wear the jacket and the tie, and his shirt is just a little unbuttoned, and he feels so free! For the first time since he hit eighteen and realised that he was The Clever Tyrell. Loras is the Pretty Vacant One (Willas bought that album when in his ‘rebellious phase’ where he only studied two hours per night rather than three). Margie the Scheming But Hot One Who Is Probably A Dominatrix In Her Spare Time. Garlan is The Sensible Military One With Medals And Children. But he has all these body parts, like toes. Toes are wonderful mechanical things, really, aren’t they? Everyone should appreciate them. “I have toes. And feet. And-”

“Ankles?”

“Yes, ankles! That’s right, ankles. Aren’t they clever, ankles? All bendy.”

“Willas, where did you get that brownie?” Oberyn dodges ninja-like as Willas tries to feed him some of the chocolate-y treat as if he were a horse, thumb tucked back and food item upon the palm of his hand.

“There is a lovely young man, he’s called-something. Something or other, he’s lovely and very kind, and he had some brownies, and I rather thought I would have one with a cup of tea, so I asked if I could have one, because there were roses at my door today and The Person,” and even Willas could see the capital letters of the words, “quoted Thomas Moore even if the poem is actually about death and the person who sent it doesn’t realise but it is a very lovely poem, and I said I had a stalker, and then he said I’d feel better after a brownie and a coffee, but coffee is vile, Obi, and then he-” Willas trailed off, humming to himself, staring into the middle distance with a vaguely dopey expression.

“A staff member?” Oberyn makes him sit, strokes his hair, perches upon the arm of the chair and Willas finds the man’s thigh a lovely comfortable pillow upon which to burrow his head. He looks up adoringly at his best friend in the whole world and realises he can see right up Oberyn’s impressive Dornish nose. He giggles. It seems to confuse his friend. Normal Willas doesn't giggle. He chuckles ruefully, or carefully chortles in the manner of the terminally repressed.

“Is there any cake?” Hungry. Need food.

“You have cake. Brownies are cakes.”

“Essos cakes*. Or macarons? Or lemon cakes? Or sandwiches? Or lembas?”

“Lembas only exists in books. I think Sansa Stark has all of the lemon cakes.”

“She’s pretty. Hair like,” and this proves a difficult thought for the immense mind of Professor Tyrell, cogs normally oiled and free-spinning creaking grumpily. “Oranges, but red ones.”

“Who gave you the brownie, sweet one?” Fingers smooth his hair, and that feels bliss beyond all comprehension. Willas purrs, rubs his cheek across the buttery leather of Oberyn’s impressively clinging trousers, comes face to face with a most impressive bulge, blinks, and decides he’s too comfortable to move away from the offending object that is inches from his face. It’s only a penis. He’s seen one before. Only his own, but that counts. See one and see them all, after all. Penis is a hilarious word! He mouths it, the word, not the actual appendage, eyes huge with delight and pupils blown with THC.

“Theon gave me the brownie, Obi. Did you know you are my only hope? Can I sleep now? I’m so hungry! Will you tuck me in and tell me stories of the Dornish wars from 1337-1453**, with incisive insider commentary that only a Dornishman can give?”

A sigh, and then he’s looking at the tasteful carpeting as Oberyn slings him over one surprisingly muscular shoulder and carries him away like a princess in a fairy tale.

Giggling, saying something about dragons and Oberyn’s massive spear, he flops languidly like a drunken salmon and launches into a long and decidedly obsessive rant about ponies.

 

* * *

 

Ironborn treachery.

They shall reap what they sow.

Perhaps he shall see if squid can swim with heavy weights attached to their tentacles. Where can one find concrete upon a cruise ship? Some _shmendrik_ needs a shoe fitting, and his name is Greyjoy.

Oh, Theon shall sleep with the fishes this evening.

Or, at least, shall have to suffer the ignominy of having a ten percent surcharge added to his impressive drinks tab. Perhaps, Varys considers and darling Nicolo would toast his scheming with Rhonish red and erotic _frisson_ , a quiet word in the ears of Cersei Bloody Lannister and Mrs. Stark would mean a rather more agreeable outcome? Ah, sweet joys of letting a control-freak and a prude know a corrupting influence could have destroyed the wedding, and the moralities of their children, from the inside.

Varys is nothing but practical. Murderous, yes, and without any of that foolish honour that drags essentially useful people into idiotic situations, but professional enough to realise that practicalities outweigh the need for blood. Plus, he needs the job to keep himself in bubble bath and the political biographies of dictators.

Also, and this is a bonus, who does not love the idea of two thoroughly pissed-off menopausal women doing your dirty work?

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Essos Cake, or the Eccles Cake, is a flaky pastry shell stuffed full of raisins and butter. It makes you fat. In a good way. Perfect stoned food for the northerner.  
> ** Hundred Years War. Did not last one hundred years. Get Trade Description involved.


	22. #DoNotShip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SnowWhiteKnight

If he had said it once, he had said it at least twenty times a day. “No, sir/ma’am, I’m Podrick.” He had to admit that it was a little tempting to say he was Gendry when it was a pretty girl who approached him, but that seemed wrong for a whole different set of reasons. At least the crew didn’t mix them up anymore, for the most part. The chef, Sandor, had taken to calling both of them “Gendrick” or “Podry”, depending on his mood. When Gendry complained about it, Sandor had simply told him to “fuck right off”.

“But it sounds like we’re a pair or something! Shireen told me that she could ‘totally ship it’, and I’m not sure what that means, but Mr. Davos started saying he could see the appeal, and I just got a very bad feeling about it.” He and Gendry were in Chef Sandor’s office/corner of the kitchen. Gendry had dragged him down to the galley to talk to the shouty chef, for moral support or just to back up his ire at the situation. Something had happened that made Gendry actually upset about the constant mix-up. He usually didn’t care. Pod thought back to the beginning of the current trip, and he vaguely remembered Gendry going bug-eyed over one of the guests on board for the wedding. A drunk, mouthy, angry and very pretty guest. Short, too.

“I don’t give a flying rat’s ass if Reeni or Davos ‘ships’ it. I will come up with an even worse name for you if you keep bothering me about it. Now get the fuck out of my kitchen. I have places to be and someone to see,” he said, shoving them both out the door.

“Is it really bothering you? The names, I mean?” Podrick asked as they walked away from the galley.

“No, but yes, it’s just...gah, I don’t know. You’re cool and everything, but I don’t want people thinking we’re  _ together. _ I mean, if you find someone you like, you wouldn’t want them thinking you’re already taken, right?” he asked.

Pod thought about the pretty, short, angry guest, and then about the curvy, blonde bombshell he thought might have been eyeing him earlier. “No, I see what you mean.”

“Ok, good. At least we’re on the same page then.” Gendry smiled at him, and Pod hoped the curvy bombshell never glimpsed that smile.


	23. #itsakindofmagic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by swimmingfox

'Master Oberyn! Master Oberyn!' 

Robin bounces, for he is unable to walk in a normal fashion but only bounce, or perhaps gambol. He is an excitable boy at the best of times, and now he has been given two bites of a brownie by Margaery, and feels tingly and glittery all over. As if he is wearing his little half-tailed Magician’s Assistant stage jacket with the black and green sequins on it. Except that it is hanging up in his cabin room. 

The door opens, just a little. 'I am busy, Sweetrobin,' Master Oberyn says, sounding like a cat, like a giant cat who has eaten a fireplace and maybe some leather. There is a strange groaning from inside. 

Robin tries to peek in, and Master Oberyn gently eliminates an extra inch or two from the gap in the door. Perhaps Master Oberyn is trying the lady-in-a-box trick again. He is often trying that. 'I can help you,' says Robin, brightly.

'Not with this, my little darkmagic,' says Master Oberyn. 'This is a task for me alone.' Mr Dondarrion, the ship’s mechanic walks past them down the corridor, and mutters a greeting to them both. Master Oberyn gazes into the distance above Robin's head, and his eyes have gone all cloudy. 'At the moment,' he says, quite thoughtfully.

Robin bounces off along the corridor. If Master Oberyn is not going to school him in the dreadfully dark arts today, then he supposes he is in charge of the magic. 

'I am the master. The master of this ship.' Robin spreads his arms, as his face goes wide with delighted astonishment. 'The master of _everything_.' 

***

‘Hey.' 

Great. Podrick is there. Again. 'Alright,' says Gendry, and takes another drag on his cigarette, staring out to sea and doing that moody eyebrow-frown-thing. Wishing that he would just fuck off somewhere else. Podrick seems to think that them hanging out together is the best thing. But it’s getting annoying.

They don't even look alike. Podrick is shorter and wider. His face is basically as wide as this bloody view. Gendry is (he shifts a little, in his casual mix of self-consciousness and minimal swagger) better-looking. Definitely. He has had quite a lot of bored cruise-ship women drone drunkenly on about how his eyes sparkle more than the sea when the sun's on it. And yet almost everyone on this entire fucking ship gets them confused. All the time.

'I thought you could wear a different uniform or something,' Podrick says.

Gendry stands (he's definitely two inches taller. Definitely). ' _You_ wear a different uniform.'

They look at each other, and Gendry imagines some sort of duel, with swords and shit, or a wrestling match as they try and get each other’s uniforms off. He would totally win. Hopefully Arya would be watching somewhere - Gendry feels his neck go a bit hot just thinking about Arya watching somewhere. But definitely not about the wrestling.

'Podrick!' That weird little boy-magician dude is there, with his hands spread out. Looking at Gendry.

Gendry sighs. Waves his cigarette-hand towards Podrick.

The kid's expression only wavers for half a second, before he turns slightly and faces Podrick. 'Podrick!' he says, turning back. 'And Gendry!'

'What do you want?' says Gendry. 

'I have come to offer a solution to all your problems!' 

'What problems?' says Podrick.

'The fact that you are basically twins!' says the kid. 'I can make one of you look different. Forever. Or maybe just for a few hours. I'm not sure.'

'For fuck's sake,' says Gendry, and turns round to the not-quite-as-awesomely-blue-as-his-eyes sea.

'Hello.' If the word was a colour, it would be leopardskin with a pink frill and it would smell of old cigarette smoke and Poison by Dior.

Gendry glances over his shoulder again. The mother of the bride, the really scary MILF-but-only-if-you-were-on-a-death-wish, is standing there, in her bikini with a tiger-stripe sort of silk cover-up thing that isn't doing much covering up. Holding a cigarette.

'Mrs Lannister Or Is It Baratheon!' says the kid, who is still there, currently standing on one leg like he’s some sort of ninja. 'I can offer you a solution to all your problems!'

Mrs Lannister Or Is It Baratheon blinks and looks a bit alarmed, for about half a millisecond. Pulls her silk thing up over one shoulder. 'What problems?'

'Your face is going a bit wrong! You're always drunk! You need a better cover-up!' The kid looks really happy.

There's no sound for a while, apart from the slapping of the waves on the ship and someone throwing up over the side, somewhere.

'You,' Mrs Lannister Or Is It Baratheon tells him, jabbing a finger in the air towards him. 'Are a little shit.'

'I am not. I am a magical boy. I have very special powers.'

'Definitely a bit special,' says Mrs Lannister Or Is It Baratheon, tapping her finger on her temple, looking like she might kill him. 

'Best be off, mate,' says Gendry to the kid, jerking his head. 

‘Ay ay, cap’n!’ The kid darts off, singing that song by Queen that he always sings. Leaving Mrs Lannister Or Is It Baratheon staring at Podrick. Or is it at Gendry? Maybe somewhere in the middle. She is wobbling a bit. 

'You are the room service,' she says, pointing faintly between them. 'Or the pool boy. Or both. I've been watching you. You are very - diverting.' And then she mouths a word that looks like _fuckable_.

Gendry and Podrick look at each other. Gendry points at Podrick. Podrick swallows.

***

'Rise. Rise. Rise, oh great one!'

Robin takes his hands away from his temples. He cannot find anyone to practise magic on. It's so boring. There's only so much he can do on his own. He's tried quite a lot of mind tricks out on the tropical fish in the tanks, and it never seems to work. Right now, he is working on making the ship levitate. It's not quite happened yet. But it will, if he keeps working on going into the deepest, darkest, underwater recesses of his mind, and also keeps singing 'It's a Kind of Magic' over and over.

'You. Strange little one.' 

The Red Lady Writer, the one who is always in the bar late at night drinking Manhattans and lighting matches and letting them burn down to her fingers, is looking at him. She is clutching a notepad. 

'Yes?' Robin feels a little nervous, and almost no one makes him feel nervous, only the Shouty Chef, because he accidentally (accidentally-on-purpose) got stuck in the pantry cupboard whilst the Shouty Chef was doing quite strange things to that really, really nice pretty girl with the ginger hair and talking quite a lot, and Robin had had to watch really, because there wasn't really anywhere else to look, and Robin had asked if _he_ could also have a lesson in making cream pies, and then the Shouty Chef got really very shouty.

'You can help me,' she says.

'Um. Alright,' says Robin, reminding himself that he is, for today at least, a Highly Professional Magician and not just Master Oberyn's assistant. 'What sort of magic did you require today?'

'No. Not magic,' says the Red Lady Writer, breathily bored and irritated. 'Do you know much about marine life?'

Robin sits up. 'Oh! Yes, I do. I know loads.'

'Tell me something.'

Robin liked nothing better than showing off. Showing off was his special skill. Master Oberyn would indulge him whilst he did all his best magician arm-moves, although quite often Master Oberyn seemed to be thinking about something else, or pruning his roses, or his moustache. 'There's the Spanish Dancer Nudibranch,' Robin says, matter-of-factly.

The Red Lady Writer raised an eyebrow. 'What is that?'

'Oh well, it's just one of the nudibranchs. They're molluscs. There are these other ones called Egg-Laying Nudibranches, and they have male and female bits, and they fertilise each other and then they lay two million eggs in coils.' The Red Lady Writer is writing things down in her notepad in a red fountain pen that leaves blots of ink everywhere. Robin seems to be giving her helpful information, so he continues, even though it is not magic. 'And ribbon eels can change from male to female, like magic.’ Robin does one of his trademark hand-splashes for effect. ‘And they can change colour, like from blue to yellow. There's the Flower Hat Jellyfish. And the Flamingo Tongue Snail. And basket stars – they have arms that are four or five times the length of their bodies. And the Sea Aneno - Amemon – Anemonone,’ he says finally, grandly.

The Red Lady Writer is writing down _five times the length_ in her notepad and watching a large bearded man walk past. 'Thank you, darling,' she says, sliding off her stool. 

'No problem!' says Robin, who wonders when someone will help him with his problems, which are mostly how his mum will only let him drink that weird-tasting soya milk, and how he hasn't really got a proper friend, and how to make the ship levitate. He wanders over to the fish again. 'One day. One day you will know what I am saying, Fish Emperor One and Fish Emperor Two.' 

He decides to go back to up to the deck, where he will sit cross-legged for several hours with his eyes shut very tight, for his head feels different today and so he will work extra hard on his magic, before getting sunstroke, fainting and waking up to find his brow being mopped by Mr Seaworth while Mr Varys waves really, really nice-smelling smelling salts under his nose.

***

_fishyfishyswishyswishy_  
_one day we will be freeeeeee_  
_to dance with SweetMasterRobin_  
_to be Brian May to his Freddie Mercureeeee_

***

'Obi,' says Willas, rather faintly. 

'Yes, sweet prince,' says Oberyn. There is the sound of someone running past the cabin door, shouting something about fish.

'The ship is levitating.'

Oberyn looks up at the porthole, which has delicately steamed up. ‘Ah yes,' Oberyn says, in nothing more than a murmur. 'So it is.'


	24. #FiddleDeeDee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by Jillypups
> 
>  
> 
> [picset hahaha](http://hotmenintheirpants.tumblr.com/post/142889898027/luke-evans-in-blue-speedo)

Margaery sits on the edge of her bed wearing a pale peach silk bathrobe, hair nearly all done in expertly spiraled not-quite-beachy waves while she tends to the last sheaf of hair with her straightener. Her makeup isn’t done yet because she knows herself, and the end of this movie always makes her cry. Though, she notices when she slides her glance from the television to the mirror behind it, she is _finally_ starting to nail the whole Beautiful Tragic Crying thing. It’s only taken fifteen years to perfect, ever since she started watching it with her mother when she was ten years old and determined to become her own heroine in her own right.

The door opens and Loras comes slouch-strolling in like he’s a model in some moody fall fashion line, the tacky ship carpeting his catwalk as he kicks the door shut behind him and flings himself in the armchair in the corner of the room. Margaery clicks the TV off with the remote and tosses it to the bed as she carefully unwinds her hair from around the straightener. Another glossy, perfectly imperfect wave, hovering between pageant and sexy single castaway on Arbor Island (preferably close to a VIP lounge).

“I’m in love with a bartender,” Loras says with a tortured sort of exultance.

She exhales long and slow and wispy as she turns tear filled eyes towards her brother and smiles.

“That’s _lovely,_ my pet.”

He takes one look at her and groans dramatically, rolling his eyes as he lets his head sag back against the cushion.

“Please tell me you didn’t bring _Gone with the Wind_ with you on this damned trip.”

“No,” she breathes, gushes, emotes and exudes, and she tosses the straightener onto her bed and crosses the tiny room to sit on the arm of her brother’s chair. “But it _just_ showed on the satellite TV they have and I mean, isn’t that a _sign,_ Loras?”

“What, that you shall never go hungry again? I mean, we’ve all been hitting the buffet pretty hard.”

Margaery swats him.

“I mean, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies, Miss Margaery, especially when it’s a burrito baby,” Loras says with a laugh as he pats her perfectly _flat_ belly thank you very much.

Margaery harrumphs and makes a mental note to get up an hour early tomorrow to hit the treadmill.

“You really are the _worst_ brother ever. Anyways, _no,_ nothing about food, Loras,” she says, sweeping herself onto her feet, though what she _really_ wants is to be swept off of them. “No, I mean it’s a sign that I’ll finally find him,” she says, lifting her arms like she's Mysa herself, and she strides towards the balcony door that overlooks the shimmery blue sea.

“Find who?” Loras says boredly from behind her.

Margaery spins around on her heel and rests against the sliding glass door, and she just knows the sunlight is bouncing off her like heaven’s rays off an angel’s wings, that she is framed with light and purpose and destiny and _amazing_ ombre highlights.

“The One.”

“Oh, well, never you mind then, Miss Mah’gery,” he says, slapping the arms of his chair as he stands. “I came in here looking to talk about _my_ love life that might actually _happen_ considering my Mr. Right is serving up amazing drinks at the chichi bar upstairs.”

Margaery tuts and glides towards him, her silk dressing gown billowing open to show the lemon merengue slip underneath. Loras pouts, almost as prettily as she does. _Maybe prettier,_ she thinks for a fleeting moment before discarding the thought entirely. She hugs her brother with sincere warmth.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss, Lorry,” she says, dragging him back to the bed where they sit side by side. “You just tell me everything and I’ll help you in any which way I can.”

“What about Mr. Right for Margaery?”

“Pffff,” she says with a roll of her eyes and the flap of her wrist, like she’s batting away a fly and not the opportunity to sink her teeth into some hardcore southern wedding planning. “I can’t think about that right now, not when you’re all lovesick. I’ll think about that tomorrow. Now lay it on me, sugar.”

Two hours later (her waves needed touching up and a perfect face of makeup takes time, thank you) they’re both spectacularly dressed and wearing their matching Game On faces. Loras is making black tie look bad in a white blazer, a crisp blue button down, and dark wash jeans over deck shoes, while Margaery simpers and simmers in a blousy, blowsy, billowy yet somehow clingy sundress made out of sunshine and froth, champagne sparkle and weak-in-the-knees plunging neckline. They are side by side at the bar where this simply _lovely_ morsel of man meat, Renly, is making them cocktails.

“So,” Margaery says as he hands over her Bellini, and she smiles sweetly as Renly flashes her one hell of a dazzler grin. “Does Mrs. Renly ever get lonely with you spending so much time at sea? Or does she live here on the ship with you?”

Wide eyed innocent blink, even though she can tell that Renly can tell she knows exactly what she’s doing. He shakes his head with a chuckle and goes about making Loras his Negroni.

“There isn’t a Mrs. Renly, actually, honey, but I appreciate the effort.”

“Ah,” Margaery says after a few sips of her cocktail, and she nods wisely. “So there’s a _Mr._ Renly?”

Renly drops the cocktail shaker, stares at her with his jaw dropped open and his hands covered in gin and Campari. “I uh- how’d you- Uh.”

“That’s something of a coincidence, isn’t it Loras? This here is my brother, Renly. As it happens, there’s no Mr. Loras either, though he’s been hoping to change that this _entire_ trip.”

“Margaery, I swear to the gods,” Loras murmurs, giving her a scathing sort of look as Renly ducks behind the bar to clean up his mess.

“Don’t swear to the gods, swear to Scarlett,” she says with a bright smile. “She’s the one who’s on your side. Oh, Renly,” she says, flicking her gaze the bartender’s way once he’s tossed his cocktail shaker in the sink and picked up a fresh one.

He looks at her warily, though he slides a quick appraising glance to her brother. Margaery very nearly starts to purr.

“I hear there’s an amazing piano duo that plays here, I was hoping to catch a song or three. Can you tell me where to go?”

“Well, it’s not really my cup of tea but as far as those acts go it’s a good one.” Renly says, and now it’s like watching the world’s most adorable badminton game, the way he and her brother are bandying sneaky little looks and smiles at each other as he makes a fresh Negroni. “It’s on the starboard side of the ship but near the prow here where my bar is here on the portside. Your quickest way is to go outside and cut across the mid-level terrace that overlooks the pool. It’ll be the first major entertaining area once you hit starboard.”

“Oh thank you,” she says, sliding off the barstool onto her strappy sparkly sandaled feet.

“Will you be taking this on the road, Loras?” Renly asks, handing over the rose-red cocktail.

“Oh _gods_ no! Loras hates that sort of thing, don’t you? You’re much better off here, and I’ll need you to save my seat in case I’m not that interested. _Don’t_ let anyone take this spot, you hear?” she asks, swatting the leather barstool with her palm.

“Yes ma’am,” Loras says, swiveling in his seat to watch her leave.

He may sound exasperated but when Margaery glances back at him over her shoulder, he’s grinning.

 _Thanks, Scarlett,_ he mouths.

Margaery winks.

 

“Hey! Hey, Davos, wait up,” Bronn says, sprinting barefoot in his red lifeguard speedo down the length of the open air deck when he catches a glimpse of the First Mate.

“What _is_ it, Bronn? I’m trying to- oh for Mother’s sake, I’ve lost him again,” Davos says with sharp exasperation.

Now that Bronn has a good look at him under the starry sky and the here and there strands of fairy lights that criss-cross overhead, he can see how harried the man looks. Hastily he lifts his chin and puffs his chest and clears his throat. _Lifeguards are probably the most important people on this stupid ship,_ he thinks _._

The pool lights are out _again,_ ” Bronn says, gesturing to where the Olympic sized pool stretches out alongside them, nearly as black and fathomless as the sea itself several stories below.

“Well, then go find more lightbulbs, Bronn! Hashtag Is It That Hard?”

Bronn stares.

“Where in the good godsdamn would I find lightbulbs on a cruise ship this size?”

“I don’t know! Ask Beric!”

“You want me to bother the mechanic for lightbulbs?”

“Oh, fine, then Podrick. Or Gendry. Or- hells, either of them. I keep seeing them – or at least one of them, practically everywhere I turn. Or hey, I’ve seen Ilyn Payne using floating candles for his weird wading pool foot massages. Go ask him.” Davos says, hand shielding his eyes as he gazes across the open deck, searching for something. Bronn neglects to tell him the sun has already set an hour ago, _which is why we need a fucking lightbulb in the pool._

And then they hear a splash.

“Davos!” a man screams. “Davos help me!”

Bronn and Davos both sprint towards the deep end of the pool, which is shadowed even more by the overhanging upper deck terrace, thinking perhaps someone fell in and can’t swim. But it’s actually over at the shallow end where the commotion is, and there is just enough low decorative light from the fairy lights to barely discern Captain Baratheon flailing and floundering in the three foot section of the pool, shrieking like a maid on her wedding night.

“Stannis, what in seven hells are you _doing_ in there?” Davos says, squatting at the edge of the pool, gesturing for his husband and captain to swim – well, walk, if the daft man would just get to his feet – over to safety. Bronn just stands there nonplussed.

“Davos, get me the door! I told you before, and I’m telling you now, we won’t let you drown! There’s room for both of us, just find me the door!”

“See, I _told_ you we needed lights for the pool.”

“Oh just shut up,” Davos snaps, right before Stannis launches himself towards his husband, snares him by the wrist and yanks him in.

“I’ll uh,” Bronn says, squinting down in the half-dark as Stannis nearly drowns Davos trying to save him. Finally Davos roars and gets to his feet, pulling his husband up by his collar like a kitten by the scruff. “I’ll go get some candles.”

 

Margaery has never felt so fabulously selfless in her entire life, and she buys Girl Scouts cookies once a year despite not really liking them. But tonight she is pure generosity and joy, and just like Scarlett says, tomorrow is another day, and tonight is just so _lovely_ outside. The usual glare from below deck is mercifully gone, and it feels like she’s floating on air a mile above the sea as the night air breezes in her face. The stars are her crown, the sea a carpet of oceanic roses tossed at her feet. She is _glorious,_ she is kind, she is a merciful benefactress who always puts _others_ in front of her, which is honestly more than _Scarlett_ ever did. _Perhaps I’ve eclipsed my mentor,_ she thinks with a sort of smug warm smile.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Miss Cock Tease 2016,” a familiar voice says, all filthy oil-slick on the lovely sea of her evening.

 _That’s what I get for passing judgment on Miss O’Hara._ She sighs, thinks of Splenda and Stevia as she turns around with a sticky-sweet artificial smile. He’s wearing too-tight skinny slacks and a suitcoat that’s too narrow in the shoulders, and he looks somewhere between an overgrown boy and a young man already gone to pot. She resists the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“Joffrey, fancy meeting you here! I figured you’d be somewhere more fitting. The poop deck comes to mind, considering that you have shit for brains.”

“You bitch,” he snarls, stepping into her so quickly and aggressively that she has no choice but to stagger and bump back against the railing.

Normally it would be a reassuring pressure against her back but thanks to the sky high heels she’s in the railing rests just above her rear end. At the very least it gives her more room to lean back away from him, and she does so.

“I should have just fucked you when I had the chance at our graduation party.”

“Excuse me? You ‘had the chance’? I was blackout drunk, Joff. That’s not a chance, unless you’re Ted freakin’ Bundy,” she says, utterly disgusted.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he says with a shrug. “It was an opportunity and I should have gone for it, even though you wound up more trash than anything worth taking.”

“You asshole!” Channeling her inner Scarlett, a fuming Margaery winds back and slaps him across the face so hard her palm hurts, and with the other hand chucks the rest of her cocktail onto his crotch.

“You’re going to regret doing that, you bitch,” Joffrey says, angrily swiping the Bellini off his slacks.

Margaery shakes her head and laughs bitterly, because this man is utter scum, not fit to be scraped from the bottom of her shoe, and _nobody_ talks that way to her.

“What are you going to do, huh? Tell your mom on m—”

Her words are stolen right from her by the two handed shove he gives her, right in the center of her chest, and it’s a push so hard it knocks the wind out of her, so that when she topples over the railing she cannot even scream.

 

“I don’t know if these will be enough but I figure they’ll help at the very least. I mean if the freakin’ captain falls in the shallow end, we need all the help we can get,” Bronn says as he and Ilyn head back to the pool, each with armfuls of flower shaped floating candles the size of bread plates.

“Hnnnggghhh,” Ilyn says with what must be agreement, considering he’s nodding, bug-eyed and, Bronn supposes, sincere.

“Right, yeah,” Bronn says, and he’s wondering if he should try for more conversation when he hears another splash. “Oh for fuck’s sake, if the captain drowns on my watch I’ll _never_ get promoted to head lifeguard,” he says, dropping the candles as he sprints towards the pool.

He’s poolside in time to make out the drift of sunshine-blonde hair, the gauzy float of a lady’s sundress before it all disappears into the black water, and without another thought Bronn dives in after her.

 

If it’s a fainting spell it’s the strangest kind, all fizziness and rushing cold water, a topsy-turvy upside down feeling like she’s being tossed around in a washing machine. And then her lungs hurt because she wants to breathe, and she opens her mouth to take a deep satisfying inhale. Instead of air her mouth fills with water, and just in time she spits it out and closes her mouth. Terror takes her over then, and she thrashes and fights to find the surface, can feel one shoe get dragged off her foot by the water, because she remembers that Joffrey pushed her overboard.

 _I’m going to die in the ocean all alone,_ she thinks. There is a strong arm that slides under both armpits and across her chest, a strong vise that would alarm her even further if it wasn’t so warm, so obviously human skin against hers and not some nasty sea monster come to claim her and drag her down.

“You’re all right,” her rescuer says once they’ve both broken the surface of the water.

By way of response Margaery arches her back and thunks her head against his shoulder as she sucks in a ragged wet gasp of air, merciful, glorious _lovely_ air.

“That’s it, there’s a good girl. Take another one. Hells, take as many as you want,” the man says as she’s tugged like a little boat, but then that reminds her.

“How did we survive the fall?” she asks. “How did you find me? I didn’t hear a-a-anyone shout ‘Man overboard.’” Margaery’s teeth chatter she’s so cold, and she wasn’t resting with her back against her rescuer’s chest she’d wrap her arms around him, he’s that warm. But, she supposes, the sea is a cold place, even during summer.

“I didn’t fall, sweetheart, I dove in after you. _You_ fell from the upper deck into the pool,” he says, and his voice is deep and chuckling and amused, apple crumble with too much nutmeg and vanilla, or perhaps not enough with how warm it sounds.

“We’re not in the sea?” she asks, incredulous and squeaking.

Instead of answering with his words he simply wraps his other arm around her waist and stands. He is tall enough that she is hauled clean out of the water up to her thighs. Disoriented, Margaery pushes her wet hair out of her eyes as she uses her higher vantage point to blink and look around. A few people mill about here and there but for the most part the swimming area is deserted. All except for her, and the mystery man who’s got her drenched and shivering in his arms like some sort of deep sea fish.

“Brrr,” she says, too embarrassed to say much more.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, sinking back down into the water so she’s submerged to her shoulders. “Here, you stay in where it’s warmer. I’ll go get you a towel.”

It’s true that it’s warmer in the water than outside in the cool night air with the breezes blowing in almost downright chilly now, though she can’t be entirely sure whether that’s because of the hour or because she’s completely freaking soaked. But with him gone now she’s back to chattering, and even though she hugs herself in imitation of his comforting grip on her, it’s a far cry. She turns to watch him wade to the side of the pool, and though he’s standing between the pool steps and a ladder, he simply plants his hands on the edge and posts himself up onto the decking.

“Oh,” she says to no one, or at least to Scarlett, because he’s lovely. Starshine and fairy lights glitter on the wet flex of his shoulders as he crosses to one of the pool boy cabanas were folded towels are stacked, and _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,_ she thinks, because he’s tall dark and handsome - _TALL DARK AND HANDSOME!! TALL DARK AND HANDSOME!!! –_ when he turns back towards her.

“Can you wade on over here or do you need me to come get you?” he asks, snapping open the towel and holding it out to her.

She is torn between self-sufficiency for the sake of pride and damsel in distress for the sake of, well, those big strong arms, but in the end Scarlett wins out and so Margaery gets to her feet. Well, one foot and one strappy sparkly _ruined_ sandal. Pushing the wet mop of once perfectly imperfect almost beachy waves (that are now absolutely _ruined_ ) out of her eyes, she lifts her chin and does her best half-submerged one-shoed limping glide out of the shallow end. Though she does, in the end, deign to accept his offered hand as she hobbles up the pool steps and into the thick towel he’s got waiting for her. Her rescuer - _Lifeguard, judging by that cherry red Speedo of his -_ doesn't bother drying himself off, aside from carelessly draping a towel over his shoulders.

“So how did you manage to fall in?” he says while briskly rubbing her arms through the towel. “Don’t tell me I finally get to make a did-you-fall-from-the-heavens joke that’s actually legit?”

He’s attentive and kind and carved like he’s made out of Valeryian steel. That magician guy has a run for his money even without the leather pants. _Although I could buy him a pair,_ she thinks as she gazes up at him. _As a thank you, naturally._

“I didn’t fall,” she says after a moment, and his hands still as he frowns down at her. “I was pushed.”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me? I mean, excuse my Lyrish but _what_? Who pushed you?”

“His n-name is Joffrey Baratheon and we got into this fight and sure, I said some stuff, but he p-pushed me,” she says, and she is still so upset, still so _angry_ that it all combines with the cold and the adrenaline, and now her teeth are chattering all over again.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you something warm to drink,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as he first helps her out of her shoe and then guides her off the deck and back inside the ship. It does not escape her, that he's still wet in his speedo with only a towel draped around his neck.

“You’re like, literally my hero,” Margaery says with a shivery gust as she looks up at him once they’re inside where it’s well lit enough to really see him, and _gods_ but he’s cute in that long, lean hungry way, that rakish scoundrel way that she’s always adored. “What’s your name? It’s not- it’s not by chance Rhett, is it?”

Her hero laughs, head thrown back as he walks her towards a little café looking place where a dark haired beauty is giggling and painting a man’s face with clown makeup behind the counter.

“No, sweetheart, it’s not. Why, is your name Scarlett?”

“I wish,” she says with a grin, and she bites her lip and hopes that trick she did earlier of spraying her face with hairspray means her makeup is still intact. “But no, it’s not. It’s Margaery.”

“Margie, huh? Nice to meet you. My name’s Bronn.”

 _Bronn,_ she thinks with a warm little spool of giddy coiling in her belly as he orders her a hot chai _. Bronn Butler, I bet, and if it isn’t then I bet I can get him to change it._

Ilyn watched the whole rescue unfold with his armload of floating candles, and the moment was so magical he still wonders if he shouldn’t have tried lighting a few of them while they talked in the pool. He’s always reckoned himself something of a romantic though no one has ever stuck around long enough to find out. So he can’t Lyrish kiss. He can still write sonnets and rub feet. And honestly, he _loves_ rubbing feet. Maybe all it takes is being the hero in that one moment of chance. I mean, that chick literally fell into Bronn’s arms. Or his pool. But _then_ his arms. _S’cool,_ he thinks as he stretches his back during his fifteen minute break out on the starboard deck. _I can do that too._

 _Ah, there they are,_ he thinks later the next morning as he turns to see Lifeguard Bronn wearing clothes for once as he strolls with the blonde from last night on his arm. They’re grinning and laughing and she keeps resting her hand on his bicep. Ilyn’s own arm twitches with envy.

Suddenly though they stop everything. The stroll, the laughter, the smiles and the touch.

“Oh my god that’s him,” the woman says, and Ilyn watches with a squinted frown as she subtly points out a weasel-faced blond man who looks hungover or like someone smeared poo on his upper lip. Which, if that’s the case, he has Ilyn’s sympathies. Someone’s actually _done_ that to him, and his heart goes out to the pinched-face man.

“Him? The prick who pushed you?”

 _Pushed??_ No, not this little guy here, with his fashionable sunglasses and those skinny slacks that are all the rage.

“Yes, him. Bronn, he did it and he said such horrible _things_ to me.”

“No problem, honey, I’ll take care of it for you.”

Ilyn frowns, and the determined look in Lifeguard Bronn’s eyes (not to mention the back to back massages Cersei Lannister booked) is the reason he decides to ditch work for the rest of the day to keep an eye on the blond man.

Just in case he needs a hero.


	25. #OperationAmbush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya tries to ambush an unsuspecting Gendry for a closet make out session.
> 
> Or well, at least she thinks it's Gendry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter written by paperflowercrowns  
>   
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/DwoOACS)  
>  _picset by zoesong_  
>   
> 

It wasn't fair.  
  
Her entire family has hooked up with someone on this cruise ship, and the most action she had got was the subtle flirting from one of the bell boys.  
  
Robb had gotten married, again, to the love of his life.  
  
Sansa was sneaking off to every corner of the damn ship to fuck the chef, Sandor Clegane. Or at least she thought she was being sneaky.  
  
Bran was completely besotted with the piano player in one of the lounges, even his service dogs seemed to be completely smitten with Jojen.  
  
Even Rickon had been gallivanting around the ship with the captain's daughter Shireen, discussing The Walking Dead and what blogs they both follow on Tumblr.  
  
Worst of all, she was completely certain her parents had been getting busy too, and that was enough to make her skin crawl.  
  
That's what made her decision so easy.  
  
Coming up with a plan was simple after she found a suitable target, one of the tall, broad, muscly, and incredibly cute bell boys who caught her eye early into the trip.  
  


She had plotted it all out with the help of the pastry chef her sister had scared at the beginning of the ship, some kid who called himself Hot Pie and and had made her the absolute best eclairs she had ever had.  
  
The target in question was named Gendry Waters, and from her understanding he was one of Robert Baratheon's many illegitimate children that his brother Stannis employs.  
  
Gendry was taller than her, which didn't say much considering everyone was taller than her, with black hair and stunning blue eyes.  
  
The plan was easy; she had spent the last few days tailing Gendry about the ship, learning his routine and habits, figuring out the best place to hide and make her ambush.  
  
The “ambush” as Hot Pie insisted on calling it, was basically a plan for a surprise make out session.  
  
Like, really surprising.  
  
So surprising in fact, Gendry had no idea it was even going to happen or who she even was.  
  
And now here she was waiting, curled up in a little corridor, ready to strike at a moments notice.  
  
Patience was not a viture Arya possessed, her mother mentioned that often enough, and the longer she waited the more jittery she got.  
  
Looking down at her watch and noticing that the scheduled check of this hallway was five minutes behind the time that it had been the last few days, which was very abnormal since Captain Baratheon ran a tight ship, and she was starting to get worried.  
  
Being as quiet as she can, she listens closely as she hears foot steps making their way down the hall, stopping briefly a few yards away before continuing in her direction.  
  
Taking a deep breath, she takes all her courage before jumping out of the dark corner she's hiding in and lunging at the dark haired man in front of her.  
  
He barely catches her in his surprise before she's wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and kissing him as hard as she can. They stumble against the wall, all hands and legs, while Arya reaches behind her to open the maintenance closet she has so conveniently located for this little rendezvous.  
  
She pushes him into the closet and is immediately encompassed by darkness. It takes her a moment to locate Gendry again, pulling him close to her as his strong arms wrap around her waist, hefting her up to his height before kissing her again.  
  
Arya lets out a sigh delight, melting into the kiss, opening her mouth to allow his tongue to meet hers. His left hand is fisting her short hair, the right one is cupping her jaw, rubbing smooth circles with his thumb against her cheek. It's tender and sweet, and Arya can feel the goosebumps breaking out on her arms.  
  
Gendry is kissing her breathless and she is enjoying every moment of it. He is surprisingly talented in this department, his hands won't stop moving and she finds that she can't stop touching him either.  
  
After what seems like forever, they manage to pull themselves apart from each other.  
  
Arya smooths out her hair and readjusts her crop top, wiping the remnants of her lip gloss off her mouth.  
  
When the lights flick on she realizes her mistake.  
  
Sure, this guy has the same dark hair and stocky build as Gendry.  
  
But his dark eyes are not the sparkling blue of the Baratheons.  
  
And his eyebrows, well, they are an entity unto themselves.  
  
This is the other bell boy, this is Podrick Payne.  
  
“Uh. Miss Stark.” He says, ears red and looking adorably bashful.  
  
“Podrick. I.. I uh.. This is going to sound weird, but I thought you were Gendry.”  
  
“Well Miss Stark, believe it or not, this happens a lot.”  
  
“A lot of people push you into closet to make out, thinking you're Gendry?”  
  
“Not so much on the make out part, though there was this one time...” He starts before she cuts him off.  
  
“I am so embarrassed. I've been following Gendry around for days, figuring out his routine, hoping to ambush him. He's been flirting with me, and I just thought I'd surprise him.”  
  
“Actually Miss Stark, you've been following me these past couple days. I've noticed. Not that I minded really.” Podrick says with a grin and Arya can't believe how cute he he looks, all bashful about the entire thing.  
  
“Oh. Um. I'm sorry, I guess. This won't happen again, I swear. This was a giant misunderstanding.” Arya says, opening the door of the closet and letting herself out.  
  
“Hey, uh, Miss Stark. Uh. Um. Arya? If this did happen again, I wouldn't exactly complain about it.” Podrick says hesitantly.  
  
It stops Arya right in her tracks.  
  
“I'll keep that in mind Podrick.” Arya says with a slight smile and a wave, turning on her heels and heading down the hallway.  
  
It might be time to reevaluate her current plan. Hot Pie will be interested in this latest development, and hopeful he baked eclairs again today.

 


	26. #GettingLonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written by FrozenSnares

“I’m just saying that this is normal, right? I mean, we’re stuck on a boat together and he has no other options.” Shireen turns to give her stepdad a hard look. She raises her eyebrows for good measure, trying to get a reaction. “Is he just stealing my Wi-Fi?”

Davos chuckles, looking down to his hands. “You could always change the password and see his response,” he offers. “But for what it’s worth, I think he really likes you.”

Shireen frowns. Huffing out a large breath of air, she slumps down on the railing of the ship, watching the people walking around below. “What makes you say that?”

“All those zombies?” he asks. “You invited him to your room and rewatched all of _The Walking Dead_ , didn’t you? Don’t you have the same OTP now?”

Shireen smiles, blowing her hair out of her face. “He’s firmly on team Glenn/Maggie now,” she says proudly. “And we watched _Breaking Bad_ a few days ago… But I haven’t seen him since. Where’d he go? This boat’s not _that_ big…”

Davos places a hand firmly on his stepdaughter’s shoulder, pushing her weight into his chest. “He’s probably realizing that his vacation doesn’t last forever,” he tells her. “Even if we were off-course for a week and unintentionally extended everyone’s stay—not to mention the financial hassle that’ll be—”

Shireen makes a strangled sort of sound, urging Davos to get to the point.

“I’m just saying,” Davos continues, “if he’s leaving with the rest of our passengers, it’s going to be one hell of a long distance relationship.”

“Is it worth it?” Shireen mumbles.

Davos laughs at her. “Do you love him?”

Shireen’s face burns, and she hits her stepdad across the chest. “Come on, pops,” she says, hiding behind her hair. “Just… how was it when you and Dad had different boats?”

Silence makes its way between them, and the heavy feeling of waiting fills the air. Slowly, Davos hugs his stepdaughter, clasping his arms around her shoulders. “It was hard,” he admits. “Hard. Harder, I think, because we were both captains. But the struggle was worth it.”

Shireen hugs her stepdad back, wondering how she’ll ever survive the remainder of the cruise like this and hoping that the ship could stay at sea forever.

\--

The lounge is dimly lit, as always, and Meera can just imagine the whirling clouds of smoke that probably once filled this chamber. She rarely gets days off, and it’s always difficult for her to figure out what to do with all the spare time. Generally, she spends those days with Jojen, but he has recently been fully incorporated into a pack of dogs, smitten as he is with their handicapped owner. Meera grins, leaning over the table and sinking her chin into a hand.

It’s nice for her to realize that her brother has found someone he cares for after so many years of walking away from many crushes utterly dejected. It doesn’t last long on the outside—Jojen usually jumps back to it and acts as if everything is fine—but Meera can see the hurt.

However, now she’s just lonely. Meera lacks company in this room, and simply picturing herself as some movie star who smokes for fun doesn’t quite do the trick that it used to. Hauling herself to her feet, Meera rights her dress. She’s young enough to run with the passengers, and she can definitely flirt her way to a few free drinks if she tries. Channeling her inner seductress, Meera strides up to the bar, taking the empty seat between two men.

Straightening her back, Meera hopes for someone to notice her before the bartender does. It would be horrendous to have Renly pouring her a pity drink before she can even play this game. Fortunately, Renly is preoccupied with a cute, curly-haired man. Meera gives them a sad smile, thinking that surely everyone has found a fling on this trip except her.

She sighs audibly, careful not to raise her voice too much. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she lulls to no one in particular.

Both of the men turn to her. One of them has a kind face and an easy smile, looking like he thoroughly enjoys the outdoors, and Meera wonders what he’s doing on a cruise. She glances at the other man, seeing a cocky, brown-haired, much younger face with a smirk. Immediately, she feels like prey, and she hears a small scoff behind her.

“I’ll buy you a drink, babe,” the cocky man tells her. “What do you take?”

Meera puts on a charming smile. “Whiskey on the rocks.”

The man raises an eyebrow at her. He chuckles down to his glass before hailing a bartender. “Can I have a Sex on the Beach for this lady?” he says. “One for here before we get down to shore.”

Recoiling from the man, Meera scoots away, wanting to call off the order. Renly gives her a knowing look, and she shakes her head, hoping that he’ll make it non-alcoholic. She needs her wits about her with this one. Renly gives her a curt nod. “Anything you’d like?” he asks past her.

“Whiskey on the rocks,” the other man replies. He immediately slides a ten across the bar, and Renly pockets it before making both drinks.

Renly moves away while making her drink under the pretense of taking more orders. The man next to her puts on hand on her thigh, and Meera can feel every crease of his hand through the fabric of her dress. She wants to vomit. Renly places the drink in front of her, giving her a wink. She’s certain that he’s already called security, and she thanks the bartender for being so perceptive.

“Drink up, honey,” the man says, the smirk never leaving his face. “You’ll need it.”

With a fleeting smile, Meera sips at her glass. Renly certainly knows what he’s doing because it looks like a Sex on the Beach, but it tastes like sugar and bubbles. She smiles to herself.

“Exactly,” the man says. “I’ve got a whole bunch of wonders that’ll take your mind away. You like brownies?”

“Theon!” someone calls sharply.

Meera jumps at the voice, but she’s happy to see the man looking scared. She’s even happier to recognize the voice of their security guard Lothor Brune. The man next to her—Theon, she expects—swears loudly.

“I’m just having a drink, man,” he calls. “Fuck off.”

“I don’t think so,” Lothor replies. “You’re already on the list for contraband, so get out or I’ll get the allowance to search your room.”

“Asshat,” Theon mumbles. He slides a piece of paper from his sleeve towards Meera. She sees that he’s pre-written a room number on it. “In case you get lonely.”

She gags at the thought, and gladly watches him walk away. She sighs, turning back to her drink. With a shock, she finds that her fruity virgin treat is gone, and an Old Fashioned glass is in front of her. Turning, she finds the other man laughing at her.

“The whiskey you wanted,” he says, holding out her faux Sex on the Beach. “And the bartender ripped him off with this. Hope he still charged full price, though.”

Meera laughs now, taking a blessed sip on the drink she actually wanted. “I think that was the plan,” she tells him. The wrinkles that appear beside his eyes make her face heat up, and she takes another drink for courage. “We can’t always give the customer what they want.”

The man laughs, then, taking another sip of her drink. “This is straight sugar, though,” he says. “But at least you’re free from company like Theon Greyjoy. Mine, too, would probably be unappreciated. I’ll leave you to it.”

He makes to stand, and Meera slips a hand onto his wrist to still him. “I think I wouldn’t mind some intelligent company,” she tells him. “Meera Reed.”

“Benjen Stark.”

\--

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Come on, man.”

“I’m serious, kid. Get out of here.”

Rickon frowns. He stops himself from kicking a nearby bucket, knowing that he needs to keep up the act for now. “I just need an in, man,” Rickon says. He kneels down, grabbing on out-of-reach wrench and placing it into the outstretched hand of the ship’s mechanic. “Just say that I wouldn’t be useless. I learn fast. I can work.”

Beric slides out from under a massive tube. “You really wanna work, kid?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“And if it doesn’t work out with this chick?” Beric questions.

Scoffing, Rickon plants himself down. He laughs to himself. “It’s better than never trying.”

Shaking his head, Beric slides back out of sight. “I like your determination, kid.”

Rickon jumps forward, wishing he could see the face of this man. Everyone else has turned him down without a second thought, claiming that their jobs required more advanced skill and knowledge than he had. He could work a hammer, though. And Beric had at least heard him out. 

“So you’ll do it?” Rickon asks, hoping to nudge in the right direction.

“I might let it slip that we could just some more help,” Beric says lazily. “The pool lights _have_ been out for a week…”

“Seriously?” Rickon lights up, hoping that he can finally get a good and proper chance with Shireen.

“Not if you keep bothering me,” Beric grunts. “Now, shoo.”

Grinning, Rickon stands up. He shoves his hands in his pockets before rearranging the tools to spell _thanks_. Then, he runs up to the deck, wondering how hard it’ll be to convince a captain to actually hire him on board.


	27. #irememberyou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By swimmingfox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an excuse to do more JoBran/BranJo/Branjen, plus piano repertoire. I'd already written this before the last chapter popped up, sorry! Imagine FrozenSnares' previous chapter falling in the middle of this one!

_“The first question I ask myself when something doesn't seem to be beautiful is why do I think it's not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason.” ― John Cage_

***

Jojen is practising his scales, early in the morning.

Some staff on the ship let off steam in other ways – the hench chef thundering away on the treadmill, one of the bell boys sneaking a joint over the side of the second deck, his sister doing her yoga moves as the sun comes up. And true, Jojen does skim through twenty lengths of the pool most mornings to clear the vodka and weed hangovers, but this is where he really gets his groove on. Sat hunched over the piano in the almost-dark, giving his fingers their workout. No matter how he feels – stoned or blue or tangled in thought – his daily limber up and down the keys makes him feel as clean as a whistle. 

He alternates, just to keep his mind lively. A chromatic scale going up, coming down on a melodic minor, up again with parallel sixths, down on a wonky altered mode.

It isn’t a bad piano, this. Jojen has played on a few ships with piss-poor instruments. Too heavy, too light, a whisper flat at the top end, a sticky key –usually from some drunk cruiser, though not like _that_ , more’s the pity. But this is a decent beast. He often thinks of them like horses, running his hand along the shiny flank, checking the black and white teeth.

Jojen sits up a bit, flexes his shoulders. Meera keeps telling him that he needs to do yoga with her, for his posture. He nods and agrees and never joins her, always opting for the company of a big, brooding fucker, who either gives or doesn't. But at least it is always there. 

He is feeling a bit lonely, to be honest. Hasn’t had a shag in bloody ages. Much less anything with any actual meaning.

He does get interest. Usually from girls wearing too much make-up, having drunk too much wine, coming up to request some Cry Me A River – the Justin Timberlake version, for fuck’s sake. Or the odd quirkier girl who likes the louche, whippet-thin, dying Victorian boy thing that Jojen has going on. Neither type does it for Jojen. 

There are a few diverting bits of arse on board. The aforementioned chef is pretty all up in your face, arse-wise, not that he seems to know it much. The bell boys, who he can tell apart from the shape of their arses. Even the old dears who run this outfit are pretty fit, in a bearish sort of way. But nothing is right. No one gives a shit about Bartok or Cage’s Sonatas and Interludes or Rzewski’s batshit-crazy North American ballades.

He sighs, and runs through a Ligeti Étude. They are absolute bastards, and he is going to fucking get them under his fingers if it is the last thing he does.

None of that Romantic shit. If cruisers do know classical music, they request the Moonlight Sonata or Für Elise, and Jojen smiles benignly and replies, ‘not a fucking chance, mate,’ which doesn't always go down so well. Baroque he likes – pristine, archaic, clever as fuck if it's Bach or Scarlatti. Or twentieth-century stuff, which if he ever plays in a gig would probably have everyone running to the side to chuck themselves overboard like lemmings. He does manage to sneak a few avant-garde licks into his improvs, and Meera will start glaring mildly at him as she croons her way through another Jerome Kern tune.

His sister is good. A warm tone, not quite Ella but not as dark as Billie Holliday, and pretty unfussy for a jazz singer. Maybe it's because they are siblings, but they do have an unspoken connection when they perform. Something liquid, symbiotic. Which is just as well, as they do the same shit night after night while Jojen tries to work in a spot of Xenakis just to keep himself from blowing his brains out with boredom.

There is the creak of the door at the back of the bar.

‘Not today, mate,’ Jojen says, still lost in the Ligeti, not turning round. The little magician kid – a guest, but Oberyn Godfather Of Sex Martell (speaking from one, cognac-heavy experience) has let him be his assistant or something – will come in and listen to him practising. He is the only person on board who doesn’t mind being gently lectured on why Debussy is not the start of modernism after all.

‘Oh. Sorry.’ A light voice, not Robin’s.

Jojen finishes the phrase and twists round on his stool.

A boy in a wheelchair is there. Jojen has seen him about a bit. Quite a lot, actually.

‘Alright,’ says Jojen. 

‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ the boy says. “I just wanted to listen.’

‘Yeah?’ Jojen squints into the shadowy corner.

The boy wheels forward. ‘Yeah. I’ve heard you from outside. You can just hear it from the deep end of the pool.’

That will fuck off Varys no end, thinks Jojen, rather happily. He has already been admonished (in an almost-sexy way) by the fragrant queen for throwing in too many chromatic cluster-chords during Happy Birthdays for guests. ‘Brother of the groom, right?’ he says, knowing it full well.

‘Yep,’ the boy says, staring quite intensely at the keys. ‘I’m Bran.’

He is cute. Definitely. Quite delicate with it, which is definitely no bad thing. Bit of a pale-and-dying vibe himself, to be honest. Jojen tries not to drift off in a reverie about dragging him out of a trench, wan and covered in blood, to lie with him in some forgotten field. ‘Alright, Bran,’ Jojen says. 

‘So are you going to keep playing?’ Bran has his hands folded in his lap. 

Jojen blinks. ‘You want to listen to this?’

Bran looks at him. His eyes are the colour of conkers. ‘Yes. If that's ok.’

Jojen gives it to him, all shredding shards of bastardness, completely unrelenting on the ear, the piano spitting teeth everywhere, finishing with the last fast-ascending little run. 

‘Awesome,’ says Bran. And he means it.

***

Bran visits every morning after that. A couple of times he is joined by Robin The Overlord, and the three of them talk about proper things, not just which girl has fallen into the pool the night before, who’s puked on who or which bell boy has been chased around the staff quarters. It is nice. And Jojen plays. He plays everything he never plays for the punters, and Bran listens. It makes him nervous, at first, but eventually Jojen relaxes, and plays better. Better than ever. He should really get some lessons once he is back in London. Do a Masters. Play at Wigmore Hall.

***

‘Someone’s besotted,’ says Meera.

‘Hmm?’ Jojen looks up. He is lying on a deckchair with a fag in his mouth, Ray Ban shades on, pretty small trunks. An old paperback of Death in Venice splayed open on his chest.

‘You never sunbathe. Getting a little tan on for anyone, brother?’

Jojen lazily lifts an arm up and looks at it. ‘Was getting a bit vampirey.’

‘ _Sure_. That’s the reason.’ Meera is in her '40s-style red polka-dot swimsuit, her hair done up. Lipstick on and everything. He clearly isn’t the only one making himself a bit more visible than usual. 

Jojen puts his hands behind his head. Obviously the reason is rather less to do with getting a tan (which is about as likely as Jojen starting to play Ed Sheeran requests) and much more to do with watching Bran use the pool.

He has some massive dude helping him - a silent, mega-bear type - in the most respectful, sort of unobtrusive way. It is elegant and not at all awkward somehow, even though his legs don’t work. The big guy part-lifts him out of his chair and onto the side of the pool, and Jojen tries to ignore the frisson of a shiver as Bran stares at the water as if he is communicating with it. His trunks are dark blue with a tiny white stripe, like something a 1960s beat poet would probably wear at Coney Island. Bran pushes himself into the pool and swims, slowly, his legs weighted far below him. 

Jojen watches him surreptitiously from behind his shades for a bit longer while he finishes his cigarette. Fuck it. He gets up, wanders over, and dives in with hardly a splash. Stays under water for a bit, watching Bran move, all the work done in his arms. A slim, green-blue body. Fit shoulders. It's beautiful, in a weird way. Legs floating behind him. A merman.

He comes up not far from Bran and slicks a hand over his hair to get it out of his eyes. ‘Nice swimming.’

Bran doesn’t smile, hardly looking over. ‘It’s the best I can do.’

Jojen treads water. ‘I mean it. I wasn’t being a dick. You look – really graceful.’ 

Bran turns onto his back, his arms moving like a kid doing a snow angel, and looks over at him. ‘Oh. Ok. Thanks.’

And they swim, slowly, together.

***

Jojen can’t sleep. All he’s done is think about Bran for the last five hours. The merman boy is starting to edge out John Cage, and no one has ever done that before.

Instead he rises, pulls on a t-shirt and jeans and pads barefoot to the piano bar. Turns the bar’s low lights on, a gloomily luminous purple. Plays Chopin.

Chopin is allowed, he tells himself. Romantic, sure, but in his own little club of one, somehow. Not quite as limpid as Debussy, but not thundering about like bloody Rachmaninov. No one does a nocturne like Chopin.

‘You can’t sleep either, then.’

Jojen almost falls off the stool. ‘Fucking hell.’

Bran is just a few feet away, in a hoodie and pajama bottoms, but both a really classy kind. This boy doesn’t do scruffy. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

Jojen puts his fingers in his fringe so that his hair sticks up, and ruffles it all down again just as quickly. ‘Didn’t hear you.’

‘You were lost.’

Jojen looks at the keys. ‘I was.’

‘Was that – Chopin?’

‘Yep.’ Nocturne No. 1 in E minor. His favourite. He plays a couple of chords from the B section again, pensively. At least his hands can be articulate, even if his mouth has forgotten how to form words. 

‘Can you sing?’

Jojen blinks. ‘My sister’s the singer, really. But – yeah, I guess.’ 

‘Will you sing something?’

Jojen looks at the keys again, whilst his heart slices into black and white oblongs. No one has ever asked him to sing. He puts his fingers down and starts playing the first falling raindrop-phrase of ‘I Remember You.’

Someone has told him before that he sounds like Chet Baker. If he can get anything near that melancholy rent-boy tone, he will die happy. He also fancies the dead jazz dude rotten, and often wishes he’d been born in 1940s New York, so he could have met the cheekboned one and ideally sucked him off from under the piano.

Jojen sings and Bran listens, as he always does, not moving a muscle. Jojen didn’t know he’d started singing this particular song until he found himself in it, and now it cannot be anything else. He keeps the vamped chords light, and his voice lighter. A tiny sliver of a solo, just once round, his right hand nearer Bran’s knee, and getting a bit more lively towards the end.

There is a pause when he finishes. Just the sound of a group of girls cheering and screeching on the deck up above them.

Jojen looks at the keys for a bit longer, before glancing over. Bran is watching him, one hand on the arm of his chair. ‘I remember you, too,’ he says, calmly and quietly. 

Memory. The way fingers remember tunes that you haven’t played for years. The way Jojen seems to remember Bran even though he’s only recently met him. 

‘I don’t know how,’ says Jojen, before shifting over to the edge of his piano stool, so that he is very close to Bran’s legs.

‘I don’t know either.’

They seem to put a hand out at the same time. A meeting of fingers like the ivory of keys, making a four-note, then an eight-note, then a ten-note chord. And both seem to pull the other towards them, Jojen leaning down and Bran leaning forward, and the smallest, most gentle kiss becomes another, and another. 

Debussy’s Reflects Dans L’Eau. Smudges of sound. Rings on water. It is lovely. Perfect, really. A load of perfect, Debussy-ish kisses.

Jojen puts a hand out to balance and thunks down a load of piano keys at once, a big crash.

Bran grins.

‘Whoops,’ says Jojen, thinking he should probably write that chord down.

The door opens. A small, delicate cough. 

Jojen turns round. Varys is there, in a damask satin kimono. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he says in a voice that is like cool tulip petals. ‘But there are to be no guests in the bar after one am, darlings.’ A subtly admonishing look in Jojen’s direction.

‘Sorry,’ says Jojen.

Varys’ voice grows even more velveteen, and barely there. ‘Turn the lights off when you leave.’ The door closes again.

Jojen looks at Bran. ‘You can come to mine if you like,’ he says.

‘Alright,’ says Bran.

_I remember you. You’re the one who made my dream come true, a few kisses ago._

Jojen closes the lid of the piano, soundlessly, and follows Bran out of the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SWIMMINGFOX'S PIANO NOTES**  
>  John Cage, [Sonatas and Interludes For Prepared Piano](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26K9f8n6ymU), which are the best.
> 
> [Rzewski, North American Ballade no. 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erYuPYWdils), which I have only just discovered and which is awesome. 
> 
> [Ligeti, Études Book 1, No. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WHdNub6Agk). Wowzers.
> 
> [Chopin, Nocturne No. 21 in E minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJpAIOFN5WQ), my favourite to play, back in the day.
> 
> [Debussy, Reflets Dans L’Eau](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXVFJf_Oxkw), which I used to play a lot.
> 
> **CHET BAKER FOREVER**  
>  If nothing else, promise me you’ll listen to this! Imagine it's Jojen singing it! Chet Baker’s [I Remember You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fu1D2PN7Yh4%22), which I have just bought on extremely crackly vinyl.


	28. #NoMoreCakesForTheForseeable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By AsbestosMouth, who must learn how to pic set so all of the Varys can be inflicted. Takes place straight after the last chapter because Fox is my muse or something.

* * *

 

 

Rather sweet seeing that lovely Jojen with his lissom elegance and penchant for frightfully constipated modern piano composers wrapped about that equally lissom young Stark boy with the wheelchair and pack of hounds. Varys is renaissance, and madrigals. He is show tunes and sparkles.

Not that Varys is happy about any beast filthying his beloved empire. Unfortunately these days he is unable to discriminate against service animals, or humans, more the pity. To be very honest, and to himself Varys tends to be most of the time because Niccolo recommends self-understanding as the key to a solid dictatorship, they cause far less fuss and mess than the vast majority of guests. At least in some places you can shoot animals and not be imprisoned for the resulting bother, but with humans it needed to be far more subtle, undercover, that often he just can not be arsed with petty murder. He is above sullying his own fair hands with such nonsense. Mostly.

He floats along corridors in heliotrope satin. Beric, excitingly dirty and grumbling about flux capacitors, stamps past like a small herd of wildebeest. The big man pauses, the steward waits patiently because he does have time for the battered mechanic with the lovely bum, and not just because of the round curves of a muscular backside, then the aforementioned Dondarrion clears his throat.

“Varys?”

“Yes dearest?”

“He’s in the pool area. Lights are still fucked.”

“Not quite as fucked as he shall be.” The tone. The expression in those still languid pools of greyish lilac - Varys has ancient heritage. He wishes he had the full purple and silver happening because really, any respecting person from Lys desires the full Valyrian effect, the one that makes most people pause with an interest that leads to grubby, disgusting, highly erotic sexual thrusting and then sticky mess, hot showers, and possibly Cillit Bang.

“Stannis’ll be pissed if we go back missing a passenger.”

“Mmm. Thank you, Beric. Do remind me that you are due a pay rise when we finally get off this cursed voyage? All of my little birds are justly rewarded.” Beric nods, always so deliciously stoic, and interestingly scarred, and the combination of exactly what he is about to do and the intense brutishness of the man standing at his hip sends a roiling excitement straight to his groin.

Interesting.

“Thanks V.” And only the boys he really adores - Beric, Hot Pie, Davos and Stannis, possibly both Cleganes at once he thinks, then smirks like a cat considering a dog-flavoured treat, boys with shoulders and hands and a certain ingrained filthiness- are allowed to shorten Varys’ name to a mere letter of power.

Oh, and Oberyn. But Oberyn is a force of nature beholden only to himself, and one of the very few people that Varys truly respects. Martell once purred in that wet-velvet voice that if they ever had sex the world would possibly implode, the sheer skill and variety creating some sort of nuclear explosion of orgasm. Oberyn is perfectly aware of the tragic, sexually charged, never mentioned past of the chief steward. He’s probably got copies of the videos, stashed in some immense Dornish library of Porn.

To the pool. To shattering the destiny of a certain purveyor of illegal substances lurking upon his beloved ship.

 

* * *

 

“Master Varys?” A singsong child voice, breathy and giddy and full of joy, and he turns with a swoosh of glossy fabric and night cream. Sweetrobin, pixie visage bright and excited as always, beams up at him with unaffected pleasure to see him. Darling boy, one that Varys approves of most strongly, especially with the child’s taste for sequins and dressing up. When Robin hits eighteen, and he will be delightful and precious and all the more legal - the steward plans years ahead, never is taken by surprise - he will suggest a perfectly adorable stage act that will star a perfectly adorable Robin, and he shall finally have the perfectly adorable protege he so thoroughly deserves.

“Angel, what are you doing awake?” He sweeps Robin’s hair back, tidies it. Tuts. The boy is clean and charming and Varys allows himself to have a little bit of a mother.

“Master Oberyn is still in his cabin, and I made the ship levitate, and he didn’t see!”

“My favourite child, has anyone given you any sort of chocolate brownie?”

Robin beams wider, rainbows and shiny, and Varys wonders if he could possibly adopt the darling creature. Perhaps mold him into a perfect weapon/artiste/steward with a suggestion of the androgynous that would suit the boy just so. Oberyn can help parent, he has done it before, he would be thrilled at finally having a son to impart the more nefarious of the Dornishman’s knowledge. A Sweetrobin of drag artistry and magic, all bound up in effete deliciousness, eager and puppy playful and soaking knowledge like some sort of Arryn shaped sponge.

It will be done.

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn?”

“Mmm, sweet one?”

“I think it has worn off now.”

“That is good. That is very good.”

“Was it you, with the roses and the poetry?”

“Perhaps-”

“You could have just asked, I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Ah, but beautiful boys should be seduced, hmm? Shown that they are lovely, cherished, adored. Worshipped.”

“Fucked?”

“Willas Tyrell, you have an unexpectedly filthy but passionately intriguing mouth!”

“I blame the students.”

“Remind me to send a thank you card to your graduating class.”

“Did the ship really levitate? Was it the brownie?”

“I shall need to have words with my little darkmagic to check.”

“Will you make the boat move for me? Technically I am aware that it is actually moving, but-”

_*silence, followed by the hizzzz of a zip*_

“By Nymeria herself! You are more than a handful, sweet one! I had no idea. If I knew, then-”

“If you need help, there is always Mr. Dondarrion. He seems capable.”

“You are innocence, but underneath-”

_*gasping*_

“I am an academic. That means I am frightfully good at theory and research but as yet I have not been able to put my extensive learning into practice.”

“I am nothing if not a willing textbook for you to browse at your leisure, sweet Willas.”

“Now, if you please, can you please just roger me senseless? I have been stupidly aroused since you carried me like some Dornish caveman to your cabin.”

_*martyred sigh*_

“If I must, my Tyrell. If I must.”

 

* * *

 

“Greyjoy.”

The youth is louche and quite shaggable, but too thin for Varys’ exquisitely workman taste. Jojen found him considering Hot Pie one sweaty afternoon in the Narrow Sea, said something about henchness, though Varys is not aware of modern slang from lissom boys with awful taste in jazz solos. Sometimes he and Jojen argue in the way of the intelligentsia, quote dead authors and philosophers snippily, a sort of semi-foreplay they both quite enjoy as it allows their minds some exercise. Not that Jojen is at all his sort. See too thin, not ‘hench’, and anyway Varys is not a romantic poet-sort with consumption and overly-earnest eyebrows. He also objects to the rubbish that Jojen coaxes from the piano keys. He refuses to play anything by Dowland or Gibbons, or Shirley Bassey.

Theon lounges against the rail, crooked grin and sharp teeth and overly fitted jeans. Slut. Not that he is judging. In those tragic days of past, Varys probably out screwed everyone. A sort of Game of Bones, really. No one out sluts the Master when his ship is on the line.

“Yeah?”

Varys pads forward, billowing heliotrope.

“What have you done to my ship?”

“Huh?”

He touches Theon’s arm with soft plump fingers, before clamping about the man’s wrist with a surprising strength that belies the steward’s effeminacy. Bones creak, faintly. Greyjoy blinks, out of his box on something which makes everything taste strychnine sweet, and Varys finally, horrifyingly, smiles.

“Really, you are a complete and utter prat, has anyone ever told you that? Probably not, considering your truly disappointing behaviour. Where is the stash?”

“What stash?” Theon’s ability to look innocent fails spectacularly.

“The first batch were eaten, regrettably, by certain members of the crew, and therefore endangering _my_ ship. The second, the ones created with the stuff you picked up from your little island, has caused a small child to be stoned and, once more, again serious transgressions amongst _my_ crew and _my_ paying passengers. You, boy, are the reason for this shambles. You have humiliated _my_ people. You will pay the iron price.” He presses forward, lips against Theon’s shell-like ear, his delicate voice dropping to a snake-hiss that lashes forked tongue venom.

“If you do not give me all of your drugs, Theon, there will be dire consequences. Such a pretty thing like you, alone, in the dark. Such a nice backside. And such a mouth. Your reputation precedes you... I’ve even heard Ramsay Bolton is looking for a BDSM partner, and I am sure you would be perfect. Please remember that we have the email addresses of all passengers. I also have our favourite Bolton’s email address. Quite an interesting and inventive head upon those surprisingly attractive yet psychopathic shoulders, Ramsay. Unless,” and his voice is olive oil and glistening and thick, “you give me what I want.”

Theon squeaks.

Darling Niccolo would, if he were alive and not moldering in an overly-ornate tomb somewhere in the ruined civilisation of Valyria, possibly weep with the sheer delicious evil of it all. Masturbate with joy.

 

* * *

 

Theon promises, whimpering, that all drugs will be disposed of in the correct manner. He lets Greyjoy disappear, white-faced, into the bar, before sashaying triumphantly back to his artfully arranged and flamboyantly eccentric cabin. Varys removes his kimono with a whirl of colour, hangs it upon the peg on the back of his cabin door, and settles himself upon his outrageously boudoir-bright bedspread. His hand finds the telephone, the internal one that connects to all of the crew cabins and other crew-only areas. He pauses, stroking his fingers over the keys, then taps in a number.

“Hello, kitchen speaking.”

“Darling.”

“Varys! What can I do you for, duck?” Chummy and warm.

“You are required.”

“I’ve got lemon cakes - really, Sansa Stark should be huge with the amount she gobbles down, but I suppose Clegane keeps her fit with the rampant shagging. Gods, her skin, Vee, it’s like silk. Lucky cow, I’m always breaking out. Wonder if she’s got some sort of facial routine apart from Sandor? Ah, some eclairs, a few choux buns, some of the gingersnaps you love-”

A pause as someone rummages about the fridges. Varys is smiling. Not that evil machiavellian smirk that sends crew and passengers into frightened tizzies, or the venal dripping shark-toothed leer Theon Greyjoy received. A true, warm, thoroughly smug smile that can only belong to a man with an erection.

“I don’t want cake, dearheart. I want some Pie.”

His voice curls, and beckons, dripping with promise. The kitchen hangs up with a slam. Two minutes later a hand pounds upon Varys’ cabin door. Hot Pie, floury and smelling of caramel, dabs a spot of chocolate on the end of the chief steward’s nose then licks it away with a long slither of a sweet-tainted tongue.

“Found your libido at last, duck?” Hot Pie is just as tasty as his ridiculous nickname. Wide and stocky and intriguingly covered in various custards, sugars, and speckles of cinnamon. He ticks two of Varys’ interests; sweet treats and the large, sticky, astonishingly filthy men who provide them. Hot Pie is dragged bodily into the cabin, by his stained whites, the door locked firmly behind them. Scraping suggests a chair being placed under the handle.

Lemon cakes are off the menu.

 

* * *

 


	29. #TruthOrDare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by Jillypups

He’s not a vocal man but Ilyn prides himself on being a _thoughtful_ one, and ever since he saw Lifeguard Bronn glower and glare and do the whole death ray thing with his eyes at that poor little tow-headed young man, who by the way looks exactly like Ilyn’s old Ken dolls, he knew he had to be _very_ thoughtful. So thoughtful in fact that he’s rescheduled Cersei Lannister’s massages for two days now, all so he can keep his eye on the young man Joffrey. He would have _explained_ this to a very incensed Mrs. Lannister when he cancelled on her, but after all words aren’t his thing, and she didn’t bother waiting around for him to get his pen and paper. He is a _sensitive_ soul, Ilyn Payne, as tender hearted as his dear nephew really, and so it _stung,_ when Mrs. Lannister called him a good for nothing son of a bitch and said she’d just go get that Gendrick boy to rub her down.

Like room service attendants have hands as strong and soft as Ilyn’s.

But no matter, because what really counts is following your heart, listening to your gut, especially when you’re proved right, and Ilyn is in the process of being proved right, right now. He’s crouched behind a large trash can watching Joffrey text on his phone in the warm glow of sunset, and he’s got his large yellow duckie inner tube around his waist – just in case he falls in the dark pool – and a pair of binoculars around his neck – just in case he sees any cool birds out here – and he’s watching as he has been for two days now.

“Hey, you,” Bronn says as he emerges from inside the ship. He’s wearing clothes for once, and for the first time since he met that blonde woman, he is alone. Ominous.

“Who, me?” Joffrey pauses mid-walk and turns to face him, is all sneer, _and why wouldn’t he be, being spoken to like that._ Tender hearts come in all shapes and sneers and sizes. Ilyn knows.

“Yeah, you, asshole,” Bronn says, and the dangerous flicker and flint in his gaze is momentarily blocked by the shadow from one of the hanging lifeboats that blocks most of the view on this portion of the portside deck.

“Excuse you, you’re the _help_ here, you can’t talk to me like that,” Joffrey says, mid-range voice wheedling up a notch or two as he defends himself, _and rightly so,_ Ilyn thinks. Cersei swore she’d fire _him_ and he never spoke a word to her.

“You’re not going to be able to talk at all, when I’m finished with you. This is for saying such disgusting things to my girl, Margie,” he says, punching Joffrey so hard in the throat that he staggers back against the railing.

Ilyn opens his mouth and steps out from his hiding place, but he’s as speechless as Joffrey.

“And _this_ is for fucking pushing her overboard,” Bronn snarls, and yep, there he goes, two hands to the younger man’s shoulders, and it just takes one swift _push_ and Joffrey is a strangled-sounding flail over the railing.

“Bronn? Where’d you go, pet?” a woman says from the hallway that leads to the interior of the entertainment level.

“Coming, sweetheart. Just had to take out the trash.”

Ilyn waits until Bronn disappears, big Lifeguard puppy dog as he heads back inside at the heed of his girl or whatever, and then he immediately spry-legged launches himself up into one of the suspended lifeboats. _It’s my turn to be a hero,_ he thinks as he reaches up to grab the davit crank to lower himself, and it’s that thought alone that keeps his fears at bay. Well, that and one other. _At least this way I’ll never have to give Cersei fucking Lannister another happy ending._

 

 

Everything feels _shimmery_ to Arya, even down here on the darkened quarter deck that leads towards the restaurants and bars. Even though she hasn’t put a single finger on one of Theon’s brownies, it almost feels like she has, everything feels so topsy-turvy wonderful. And that is entirely thanks to the fact that Gendry’s got her by one hand and a swiped bottle of Calvados has her by the other. She owes that latter boon to the fact that her sister has kept Shouty Chef so busy and exhausted he didn’t notice Gendry swipe it from the flambé station in the kitchen. She owes the former to simply marching up to the room service attendant and telling him to tell his work to fuck off, that there are other matters he needs to be tending to.

“Like what?” he said, soot-and-ash smolder as he narrowed his sea-bright eyes at her.

“You’re looking at her,” she replied, arms folded across her chest and just beneath her boobs like Sansa taught her. _Squeeze and lift,_ Sansa said, so squeeze and lift Arya did.

Gendry’s eyes widened, and then he grinned.

That was approximately 15 minutes ago. Fifteen minutes of anticipation as he took her by the hand and dragged her down the A deck corridor until they found another room service employee and Gendry growled out _Cover for me, Grenn._ Fifteen minutes of standing with her hands clapped over her mouth as Gendry slipped like a shadow into the kitchen to swipe some liquor behind the chef’s turned back – _are those are my sister’s legs wrapped around him?? Oh my gods –_ before they were out in the hallway again. Fifteen minutes of wondering what exactly Gendry had planned. Lovely, lovely, minutes, the loveliest she’s spent on this stupid ship.

 _Well,_ she thinks with the nip of her lower lip as they take a turn down a wider hall. _There were some very nice minutes spent in a utility closet a few days ago._

“Here, this should be good,” Gendry says, turning on his heel to face her just in time to ram open the banquet room doors with his strong shoulders.

They swing open like old fashioned doors to a saloon, and she’s thinking cops and robbers and cowboys and cowgirls as they stumble into the darkened room, half-forgotten and still half-decorated from Robb and Cella’s wedding at the start of the cruise. The tables have been cleared but there are still the ostentatious swags of décor draped along the walls, empty cleaned chafing dishes still lined up on the buffet table in the back.

“This was the only big event planned this trip, so we’re not going to get caught here,” Gendry grins, still pulling her after him as he walks backwards into the huge room. “Varys is usually on everyone’s asses to clean up but he’s been preoccupied with some pot-brownie idiot.”

Arya wrinkles her nose and decides not to share her little part in _that_ whole fiasco.

“What would we get caught doing?” Arya says as she pops out the wax-covered cork from the bottle. She takes a swig, eyes widening at the instant bloom of fume and burn of liquor as she swallows a mouthful.

Gendry laughs as she scowls, and just to prove that she can drink fucking gasoline if need be, she takes one more – albeit smaller - swig. Yo ho ho, a pirate’s life for her.  

“We’ll start with that,” he says, taking the bottle from her and drinking at least a shot of it in one gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, knuckles a faint glimmer of boozy wet she can just make out in the low light.

Arya takes his hand and brings it to her mouth, looks up at him as she licks the Calvados from his skin, and that makes his laugh stall out like an engine, all rumble one minute, stagger and stumble and stutter the next until all he’s doing is watching her with his chest heaving. Big strong man right here, turning to putty in her hands, and it’s just her cup of tea. If she drank tea.

“Damn,” he says. “There any more where that came from?”

Arya grins. Blush-flush warm to begin with but now she’s hot from triumph. “One way to find out.”

Someone in the back of the room clears their throat. “I think this is my cue to leave.” A guy, then, somewhere in the dark, and there’s a corduroy sort of softness to it, durable reliance and soft rub, that is familiar. And then—

“Podrick, fuckin’ A, man, what the hells are you doing in here?” Gendry says, spinning around to face the direction of the voice, standing in front of her like she’s in some sort of danger. She’d roll her eyes at that if she wasn’t instantly distracted.

 _Podrick,_ Arya thinks with a strange and sort of awesome mingle of horror and hells-yeah delight, and before she can help herself she’s running her hands through her hair, sprucing herself up like she’s Sansa for fuck’s sake. He comes slow-stride-slow from the darkest corner of the room, emerging in the greyed out light with the edges of him all smudged, and he’s aloof and unassuming, one hand in his pocket and a brandy snifter full of what looks like wine in his other.

“Hiding from Mrs Lannister. Or Baratheon, whatever,” he says, and even though there’s slight exasperation to his tone it’s still unrumpled.

Not that he doesn’t know how to rumple, if he wants to, and _oh_ how rumpled she felt the other night after traipsing back to her room from that closet.  _Did he_ want _to rumple me though? Would he want to again?_ And then he sees her standing in the black of Gendry’s shadow, and for a moment she feels like ducking under the table, when she sees his face fall as he recognizes her.

“Arya,” Podrick says before shaking his head with a small wistful smile. “Ms. Stark, I mean. My apologies.”

“You can call me Arya,” she says only a little breathlessly, tossing her hair from her eyes as she gazes at him. "I want you to."

Podrick smiles at her.

“Time to find another hiding spot, Payne,” Gendry says gruffly.

Arya winces. The roller coaster peak of Podrick’s eyebrows falls flat at the rebuff, and suddenly she knows she can’t just let him go.

Blame it on the Calvados.

“You should stay,” Arya says quickly, stepping around Gendry until she’s somewhat between them, the referee at the world’s strangest, darkest, Apple-brandiest tennis match.

“Excuse me?” Gendry says.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay, I’ll leave you two alone.”

“There’s no reason we can’t share,” she points out, lifting a hand and waving it towards the ceiling. “This room is huge.”

“Three’s a crowd,” Podrick says quietly, eyes on her as he drinks from his snifter, and she’s close enough here between them to smell the candy richness of port that her mother likes during winter holidays.

“Yeah, what he said," and it's sort of adorable, how jealous he seems, though there's none of that annoying swagger some boys use. Just that smoky Gendry smolder to the sweet autumn-leaf Podrick burn on her other side.  

“Oh, not all the time,” Arya says, pushing between them to grab the bottle of Calvados. “Isn’t that a brandy snifter?” she says, gesturing towards Pod’s glass with the bottle.

He nods.

“Looks like you need brandy in it then.”

She uncorks the bottle again and he half-grins, half glances at Gendry before shrugging and draining his port. Podrick holds out his glass and she fills it far fuller than is probably standard, but to every level of hell with it. She turns towards Gendry, gazes up at him as she takes another swig, slower this time, careful as she lets the golden stuff warm her up and give her a little more courage, a little more bravado that she'll need to pull whatever-this-is off. She isn’t sure what she wants, only that she does _not_ want either of them to leave. So she licks her lips and smiles when she hands Gendry the bottle, hopes he understands her when she lifts her eyebrows at him.

“So when isn’t three a crowd, Arya Stark? Hmm?” Gendry murmurs after taking another deep long pull of Calvados, his throat a strong bob as he swallows, and her eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark to see some sort of murky amusement in his gaze as he regards her. His gaze flicks up and over to Podrick, back down to her, and whatever is muddying his amusement isn't enough to make him leave.

Arya feels a thrill, deep and long and dark, and she grins at him, slides a glance to Podrick where he stands stock still and not as tall, but still as enticing as Gendry. His eyes are on her too. Arya swallows before she shrugs and reaches out and slides her left hand into Gendry's and her right into Podrick's. Simultaneously, they squeeze their palms around hers, and it nearly makes her knees buckle.

“When you play Truth or Dare.”

 

 

When Joffrey wakes up he immediately thinks he has died and gone to the brightest, hottest, stickiest and sandiest of the seven hells. His throat is killing him, his parched skin burns from the stick and slap and sting of sun, and it feels like he has possibly drank an entire goldfish bowl of saltwater.

That thought makes him sit up so fast his head spins, and he spreads his legs just in time to vomit out bile and seawater into the sand between them. He blinks blearily down at the now-wet sand, and his eyes take a long time to adjust to the brightness out here. But then it does so, and the senses that had been so blissfully turned off for gods know how long all come raging back to assault him.

Birds caw and shriek above him, and what little headspace of his they don’t fill, the rushing hiss and static of ocean surf does the rest of the way. Breezes blow but the sun is so bright and baldly on the offensive that they do nothing to cool his skin, which is already a bright pink though the sun hasn’t fully reached the center of the sky yet. And his _mouth._ Salt has parched it so it’s dryer than a bone.

Who the hells is to blame for this?! He remembers a horrible punch that made his throat feel like it was closing up, a big strong shove, some big asshole talking about his girl. But no name springs to mind.

“Water,” he says, or tries to. It comes out like a geriatric’s death rattle, and with a flinch and wince he tries to swallow, cups his hand over his adam’s apple as the flare of pain blossoms when he does so.

“Hnnngh?” a man says beside him, and Joffrey squints through the bright morning light as he looks up, to the figure standing beside him, the bright orange shape of a lifeboat behind him where it’s been dragged up the shore and tethered.

Seven fucking hells, it’s that man his mother had been going to see all week long, the creepy guy who never talks but always looks. _And I think he’s been following me the past day or so._ Either way, the creepster is holding out a large canteen of water, and Joffrey snatches it. He tips his head back and drains half of it, feels the cool rivulets that stream from the corners of his mouth and down his aching throat and across his bare chest, and that’s when it hits him.

Slowly he lowers the canteen as he looks down. Thank gods he’s still in his Banana Republic men's linen capri pants, but sure enough, there’s no shirt. He knows without a _doubt_ he was wearing a shirt when he went overboard. Angrily he opens his mouth to demand his clothes be returned to him but again nothing comes out except for a wheeze. Something about that seems to really make this other guy happy.

Joffrey slowly, painfully, achingly gets to his feet, holding his head in one hand as he looks around. It is the very definition of desert island, scrubby palm trees arcing tall and spindly high up above him, tropical underbrush choking the view towards the center of the small island. The only signs of civilization are the lifeboat, a makeshift laundry line where his shirt - _and thank gods for that,_ _it's my favorite Ralph Lauren shirt -_ hangs flapping in the breeze above a rubber ducky inner tube resting in the sand. And of course, the only other man there besides Joffrey.

"Hnnngh," the man says.

When Joffrey looks at him, the man holds up a coconut bra made of twine, the innards of the bra cups still milky white and dripping with coconut milk. The man grins, wide and somehow depthlessly black inside like a hollowed out gourd despite the man having most of his teeth.

"Hnnngh," he says again, shaking the bra so the coconuts clatter against each other. World's worst wind chimes.

Joffrey lurches over and retches again when the scent of coconut wafts to him on a sea breeze.


	30. #sweetgoddamnlazyriverblues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by swimmingfox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck's sake man. You lot do my head in. I CANNOT STOP WRITING and it's all your fault and entirely not mine (probably). This is for Jillypups and all her fault, and sorry it's completely inconsequential. Props to FrozenSnares also.

'Well, Jesus Christ,' Benjen says to himself. 

There she is, a vision in pillar-box red, sauntering - though that's too showy a word really - to the side of the pool where her brother, the pianist, is lying next to Benjen's nephew. They seem to have become a little cosy. 

Meera. The jazz singer, the one who tossed that whisky he'd bought her around in its glass like she was panning for gold. She'd introduced herself halfway through their conversation at the bar, with a strong, assured handshake and another one of those bright grins. 

_I know_ , Benjen had thought but didn't say, because he'd already watched her sing three times. The first had taken him by surprise, staring into his own whisky glass with not a little melancholy because really there were better things he could be doing than being cooped up on a cruise ship, with all the razzle and dazzle that came with it. But family was family.

The piano kid had played on his own for a bit, whilst everyone had dinner and talked over him. And then there was that voice - like maple sap straight from the tree, with all its sweetness and bitterness. Benjen had twisted round a little, because there was a thread of a siren call in it - there must have been - and there she was, spotlit and shrouded in something that he fancied for a moment was woodsmoke. A forest sprite. 

He knew some of the songs – old-time jazz numbers, Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra. I Get A Kick Out of _You_ , he’d thought, and looked at his whisky glass as if to say well, where the hell did that come from?

She’d seemed happy to talk, there at the bar. Her hand in her hair and her eyes ducking down to her glass enough times for him to think the near-impossible. She’d told him about the New York bars, which sounded like his idea of hell, and he’d told her about his wolf-tracking work up in Nebraska. They were as different as bourbon and champagne, but they kept on talking. The bar guy had told them he had to shut up shop, and she’d left Benjen with a long, softly shrewd glance and a squeeze on the arm, before slinking down the hallway. He’d tried not to watch her go and done anything but.

And now here he is, feeling like a prize idiot, sitting out up at the deep end of the pool with a National Geographic on his lap, because he'd spied her taking the stairs to the pool deck. Pretending to read about beaver imports in Scotland. Glancing up to see if that vision was real once in a while.

Sure enough, there she was. She had on this - vintage, is that what you'd call it these days? - swimsuit, red, with a strap around her neck, low on the hips, giving her all sorts of curves that a man Benjen's age shouldn't be thinking about. Her hair was curled back and she had a headscarf on. Sunglasses that pinched at the edges. You could have popped her right into a Howard Hawks movie. 

She’s talking to her brother, who has an arm round Bran, their two deckchairs right next to each other, and Benjen thinks, well there’s a turnout for the books, and wonders what Ned thinks about it all. Meera has her hands under her hair and flicks it outwards, turning at the same time, and she spots him. Benjen looks down. When he lifts his head again, she's still facing him. And she comes on over. 

It’s like Marilyn Monroe crossed with a raven.

‘Hey there,’ she says. Her speaking voice is so different from the way she sings, but Benjen supposes that Frank Sinatra didn’t just croon through his _pleases_ and _yes ma’ams_ either.

'Hey there, Meera,' he says. Hoping he sounds casual, just a guy reading about goddamned animal re-introduction under the blazing hot sun.

‘Have you swum yet?’

‘Not really me. The hot chlorinated thing, I mean.’ He half-twists round to look out to the horizon. ‘I’m more of a cold ocean kind of guy.’

Sometimes when he tells people that he swims in the ocean, ducks into rivers, they look at him like he’s crazy. Not this girl. Her eyes narrow as she gazes at him thoughtfully. ‘I can just see it,’ she says, not much more than a murmur, though one with a grin attached, and Benjen damn near blushes, wondering what she means. ‘I bet you just jump right in, don’t you?’

‘Something like that,’ Benjen says.

‘Well, excuse me while I have a quick dip in this filthy-hot pool,’ she says, and unwraps her headscarf, taking her sunglasses off the top of her head. ‘Would you mind looking after these for me?’

‘My pleasure,’ he says, taking them off her as if they are gold and silver, because he realises that she means she’s coming straight back this way.

***

‘Benjen?’

‘Hmm?’ Benjen opens his eyes to find a sand timer-shaped shadow blocking out the sun. He rubs his face. Too much whisky and not enough – not _any_ – walking is making him as sleepy as a damned retiree. He can’t wait to get back to his wolves. Well, mostly. 

‘Someone got a little sleepy.’ Meera sits down, and Benjen’s heart near-stops as she leans over him to collect her scarf, which is by his head. Tepid drops of poolwater hit his shirt and his arm. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says, and wipes a drop off.

‘Not at all,’ he says, and hopes to god he doesn’t look like the half-hibernating grizzly having a heart attack that he feels like.

She gives him a slow smile. He thinks of vanilla ice cream and cherries. ‘Mind if I join you?’ she says, and there’s a slight watchfulness to her gaze.

‘I would hate anything less,’ he says, not entirely believing that the words are coming so damned easily from him, but then everything about this seems so easy. She drags a chair over, just as close as those boys across the way, flashes him a glance that is partly careful and partly impish, and stretches herself out next to him. He eyes the pool, not having a darned clue what to say next. 

She turns her head. ‘If you were thinking about putting an arm around me anytime soon, I wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.’

He turns his head. Her eyes are as bright as river-pebbles. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, and does just that.

***

‘Tell me about the lake where you swim,’ she says. 

It’s night, and for once, he’s not thinking about the crackle of the woods outside, or the long, slow hint of wolves in the air. Because Meera is here, lying half-draped over him as if she’s used to the way his bones sit in his skin. As if she’s known him for half his life, and right now he wishes that she has.

He puts a hand in her hair. ‘It’s as soft as soapwater. You get pockets of warmth, sometimes real far down near your feet, but usually the surface is warmer and your toes get a little pinched.’ 

She hums, maybe because of the lake, maybe more because he’s running a hand down her naked back, silently counting the pebbles of her spine. 

‘You get water boatmen right up to your nose. Ducks come pretty close, too. You feel like one of them.’

_She’s_ lakewater. And riverwater. Smooth and supple, chill to the touch, at least to start with. Before his lips went a little further down, on every rounded part of pebble-cool flesh he could find, and warm. She’s seawater too, in some places.

He hasn’t had a woman in two years. His wolves have been his wives – that’s what his colleagues would always joke. But maybe the wait has been worth it, for this girl, who can probably tempt fish from the water with that voice, unwinding like fishing line. She’d sung to him when they’d first got to his cabin, just a little under her breath, and it was enough to stop time. The singing had turned to kisses, and the kisses to hands on skin as clothes disappeared. 

She had sighed and said ‘oh lord,’ just the once, as he’d slipped into her, and just as everything else, it was easy and quiet. The calm of a morning in the woods, on the trail of his pair.

‘Have you ever seen a wolf?’ he says now.

‘I saw one not too long back,’ she says, with a slow stretch of a shoulder. ‘Maybe about three minutes or so ago.’

He hums a laugh, the smallest, slightest sound. They lie, not saying anything for a long time. He can feel the whisky warming his belly, still. Or maybe that’s something else. ‘What’s that song you sang?’ he says. ‘A few nights ago, the second or third one you did.’

‘That’s not giving me much of a hint,’ she says. ‘Sing it for me.’

‘Hell, no,’ he says, as vehement as he’s been with her. As he’ll ever be, he thinks. ‘I want to keep you in here, not have you run hell for leather out. Louis Armstrong, you might have said. Blue skies and robins.’

She rolls off him, onto her back, and gazes at the ceiling. ‘Lazy River,’ she says.

Benjen pulls her close, and wonders if a girl like her would ever swim in a lake with him, or watch wolves. ‘That’s about right,’ he says.


	31. #Date #AFruitOrASocialThing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by SnowWhiteKnight

They were in the kitchen. He was working, she was avoiding her parents and the glares. He had found her a stool to perch upon, so she could be near him but not be in the way of his job. 

She liked watching him work, his magnificent arms being all wonderful and flexy, though she had to promise Hot Pie to not violate the sanctity of the kitchen again. For a third time, really, since he didn’t know about the second time. It was very difficult keeping that promise, but she had given her word.

“Are we only ever going to have sex while I’m on board?” 

Sandor blinked. “Uh…” 

She stared back. “OH! Not that I’m complaining, because it’s fantastic sex. It’s just...I was kind of hoping we could maybe do something else. In addition to that. As a precursor. Or a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes.”

He handed her a piece of fruit, extras from the sauce he was making for the lamb dinner to be served in the evening. “There you go.”

“Oh, ha ha, you’re a regular comedian,” she said dryly. She ate it anyway. “Good date. May I have another?”

He handed her a small bowl. “There’s at least fifteen dates in there. Does this mean we’re going steady?” he asked with a grin.

She bit into another piece. It was sticky, sweet and slightly dry, but yummy. “Hypothetically, if you did indeed just give me fifteen  _ dates _ , then I suppose so. Once I’ve had five dates, and they are all good, you shall be considered ‘THE BOYFRIEND’ and I shall be your girlfriend and we shall kiss and hug and watch movies and make fun of the bad ones. After ten good dates, I’ll bump you up to ‘STEADY BOYFRIEND’ which includes all that stuff, but after that stuff happens, we shall retire to your quarters and have, as they say in French, le sexy times before going to bed. When we wake up, more sexy times and going about our day. You being a shouty chef, of course, and I...I shall be...um…” 

“They can always use more entertainment for the dinner service,” he offered. “Or a hostess. Last one ran off with a passenger.”

“Ok, maybe a singer or a hostess during dinner service. TBD. Oh, but I would need to join the staff to begin with, since I don’t like the idea of long distance relationships. Ok, so, then, sexy times during the day, if we can find the time, which we haven’t had trouble with before.” She winked at him and he laughed. She liked how he laughed, deep and throaty. “We’d both be busy working during dinner, but after that… Dates,” she held up her fifth piece of the fruit, “rinse and repeat. After one hundred dates...well, I guess we’d either break up or go to the next level.”

“Practically got our lives planned out there, little bird,” he said, stirring the sauce slowly.

She shrugged. “It’s just a hypothetical,” she said, finishing off the fifth delicious date. But she’d be lying if she said that the thought of making all of that come true didn’t make her heart skip a beat.

She was about to say something else, when the prep chef burst in. She was pretty sure his name was Lommy. “You are never going to guess what I just heard!”

“Probably won't. Guess whether I care or not,” Sandor scoffed. Sansa giggled.

“It’s horrendous and fascinating and just bizarre! I heard that some of the staff and passengers were lost at sea! Either fell overboard or were drunk and stole one of the lifeboats. Management is trying to cover it up.”

Sandor just rolled his eyes. “Lommy, sod off and get the fuck to work. There’s no way that’s true.”

“I’ll bet you one week of meal planning that it is!” Lommy exclaimed. Sansa had no idea what that was worth, or really what that was, but Sandor raised his good eyebrow at the younger man, clearly intrigued by the wager.

“Fine, but if I’m right, you have to clean the kitchen top to bottom by yourself. I’m talking full on cleaning, getting behind all the equipment and scraping all the grease traps until this place looks brand spanking new.”

“Done!” Lommy said, and they shook on it. Sansa just kept munching on the dates, trying to figure out what a good first outing with Sandor would be.  



	32. #StonedFirstImpressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor meets Sansa's parents and wishes he'd not eaten the brownie he found.
> 
> by bookhoor

It is the sixteenth time they have fucked, by Sandor’s count. Not that he’s counting. (He’s definitely counting. He has counted every sexual encounter they’ve had.) He leans back on the vanity in her stateroom, grimacing as he feels a splinter of wood poking him in the hip. Varys is going to kill him if he finds out Sandor’s going around breaking furniture. It’s not like it was intentional, he defensively tells Varys in his mind. He can’t help it if Sansa is an enthusiastic lay.

He is making a mental note to ask Beric for some wood putty when Sansa’s voice breaks his concentration and all he hears is “my parents”. He blinks. “Sorry, what?” He asks dumbly. 

She sighs audibly. “I said I think maybe it’s time you met my parents.” Oh fuck, he thinks. Godsdamnit, he thinks. Not fucking likely, he thinks. Her eyes are big and blue and so damn beguiling and fuck, he’s going to have to meet her parents.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and mutters an assent. Her smile is wide in response, and he knows he’s completely screwed. What the hell does he know about meeting parents? His fingers are twitching in his pockets when he feels something mushy next to his thumb. He draws it out and sees it is a squashed bit of brownie that has been wrapped in plastic. He vaguely remembers nicking it from a plate the tiny brunette girl had been running around with on the first day of the cruise. Arya, his mind supplies, Sansa’s sister. He peels the wrap off and sniffs the brownie. It doesn’t smell moldy, so he shoves half of it in his mouth before waving it at Sansa, offering her the other half. She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose at his behaviour. 

“Owdyuwandoit?” He mumbles through the mouthful of brownie. She blinks, and he chews and swallows, asking again, “How do you want to do it? Meeting your folks, I mean.” 

She tilts her head, considering the options. “I think maybe lunch? It’s casual enough that it won’t be too big a deal.” Sandor snorts at that. She has no idea how big a deal this is.

It isn’t until a half hour later when Sandor is changing into a clean shirt and combing his hair that he realises maybe something was off with that brownie. His hand holding the comb feels really heavy, and he doesn’t remember his hair feeling so soft. Fuck, he realises. He’s stoned and he’s about to meet Sansa’s parents. He’s only seen them from afar, stern eyes and pursed lips and set shoulders, probably not the sort who condone pot brownie usage, accidental or otherwise. He smacks his lips, trying to work up some saliva to combat the dry mouth, and peers closer into the mirror to see if his eyes are red. They don’t look that bad, so if he’s really lucky, his state of being won’t be too noticeable. Hair combed and clothes changed, Sandor heads up to the guest deck to meet Sansa outside the dining room. She has also changed and brushed her hair (his fault, he loves grabbing handfuls of it), and she looks him up and down approvingly. 

“They’re already inside, having lunch. All I’ve told them is that I want them to meet a friend, so um, you don’t have to be all boyfriendy or anything.” Sandor realises with a start that Sansa is as nervous as he is, and he is surprised at how reassuring that is. He puts his hand on the small of her back, and takes a deep breath, feeling her breathe deeply as well. They are breathing in unison, he thinks. Together, like they are each a single lung but together a full set, working together. Fuck, he is _really_ stoned.

Sansa guides them to a table in the middle of the room, where her parents are seated in front of a plate of finger sandwiches. He hopes his size will help excuse how many of those fucking sandwiches he plans on eating, he is suddenly starving. He knows it’s just the munchies hitting him, but right now those sandwiches look like the greatest fucking thing he’s ever et, and he’s been to some of Kings Landing’s best restaurants. 

Sansa’s father stands when they get to the table, and holds his hand out to shake Sandor’s. His grip is firm, but Sandor can tell it’s a put-on by the grimace on Ned’s face when Sandor strengthens his grip in response. Sansa kisses her mother on the cheek, and turns to make introductions. 

“Mother, Daddy, this is Sandor. He’s one of the chefs here. Sandor, this is my father Ned, and my mother Catelyn.” Introductions made, they sit down and Sandor awaits the inevitable onslaught of stares and questions.

Amazingly, neither parent seem even remotely alarmed by his face. Catelyn wears a look of cool regard and barely blinks as her eyes pass over his scars. He thinks perhaps it is because of Botox but looking closer he can see fine lines around her mouth and nose. Ned has skimmed his eyes over Sandor’s scars but seems more interested in Sandor’s tattoos. He casually flexes his biceps, causing the dogs of his family crest to ripple and seem to snarl, and Ned’s eyes widen.

“So Sandor, are you the head chef, or one of the sous chefs?” Catelyn asks politely. Sandor translates this in his head, hearing “how much do you earn, because my baby is worth millions”. 

“We have a fairly democratic kitchen in terms of menu planning, but I guess you could say I’m the head chef. I’m in charge of proteins.”

Catelyn’s mouth has tightened at the word “democratic”, but relaxes again when he confirms he is essentially in charge. Sansa chirps in, “Sandor made that rabbit stew last night, mother! You loved that stew!”

Catelyn’s eyes soften when she looks at Sansa, Sandor notices. He also notices that they are the same clear blue colour as Sansa’s, and he sees where Sansa’s looks have come from. She is her mother’s daughter throughout. He shifts uncomfortably, trying not to think about whether Catelyn is her daughter’s mother under that wrap dress. 

His eyes move around the room, and he is startled to see Gregor sitting at another table, staring rapt at a woman who can best be described as an egg. If eggs were really damned round, and came out pink, and covered in fluff on the outside. If she were a vehicle, she would be a public bus. Sansa would be a sleek sports car. A hybrid, maybe. He clenches his teeth as the urge to motorboat Sansa washes over him. If he ever figures out where these pot brownies originated, he will be having serious words with the creator. And by words, he means his hands will meet their neck. He flexes his fingers and two knuckles crack. Ned’s eyes widen again. 

Sansa is oblivious to Sandor’s discomfort as she blathers on to her mother about what the other Stark and sundry relations have been up to. Lysa’s hardly left her stateroom, she’s theoretically brought Robin on this cruise so he could get to know his stepfather Walder better but has instead let him have the run of the ship while she and Walder stay in their room watching old episodes of Gilligan’s Island and The Love Boat. Catelyn confesses that she’s not sure what Rickon’s been up to but there have been no fire alarms so she’s feeling relatively worry-free. Even Ned has noticed Bran’s flirtation with “that piano boy” as he calls Jojen, but they are all of them unsure as to what Arya’s been up to. Sandor struggles not to say anything, but he doesn’t think he should tell her parents about her playtime with Gendry and Podrick. It’s none of his business what three adults get up to when they think no one can hear them. The acoustics in that ballroom are really quite superb.

They’ve been sitting there for an hour and Sandor’s buzz is diminishing now that’s he’s stuffed full of finger sandwiches and a few of Hot Pie’s eclairs, and he’s got no basis for comparison but Sansa is still smiling so he thinks this whole ordeal’s gone alright. Catelyn and Sansa have gone over to say hello to Robb and Myrcella, who have emerged from their suite long enough to eat something other than each other. Suddenly there is a finger in his face and he has to bite back the impulse to, well, bite at it. Maybe his buzz isn’t totally gone just yet. The finger belongs to Ned, and he is shaking it. What the fuck?

“Sandor, I want you to know that I think you’re an alright guy. Sansa’s my little girl, but she’s also a grown woman and I trust her to make good decisions. I’m confident you will treat her right. I am shaking my finger because Catelyn is currently telling our eldest son about you and I want them to think I am putting my foot down and telling you about my shotgun and my shovel. I do have both, if you were wondering. I’d be glad to show you both, in that I’d like to invite you up to Winterfell to shoot grouse and maybe use those arms of yours to dig out some tree stumps. Catelyn looks satisfied so I think I can stop shaking my finger now. Sorry about that.”

Sandor isn’t really sure how to respond, but he thinks that’s probably for the best, since he most likely looks completely taken aback. Finally, Sandor finds his voice. “I can roast the hell out of a grouse.” Ned’s laugh is more of a roar, and Sandor is surprised at how happy he is to hear it. Looking over at Sansa, he catches her eye and smiles. She is beaming back at him and he finds himself thinking that maybe he will stop counting how often they fuck, and start counting every moment they are together.


	33. #TheyWantTheD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Tyrion have both been to the spa. Who will win in the game of love?  
> by bookhoor and Mollie the dog

Tyrion had never been one for shame. As a child, the only way he’d been able to get Cersei to pay any attention to him was to let her dress him up in doll’s clothing and play Lords and Ladies. Not to mention, you couldn’t be lifelong friends with Oberyn Martell and _not_ come away a little lighter on the feet for it.

All of this to say, Tyrion thought, wiggling his toes, there was nothing wrong with a man enjoying a manicure and pedicure whilst on vacation. He’d been lost when he first wandered into the spa, but that was before he’d seen the vision who worked there. They were glowing in the neon light emanating from the open tanning bed, lithe and lissom and luscious. It had taken a few moments for Tyrion to find his tongue and even when he did, communication had been stilted. Tyrion’s Valyrian was rusty, and their Common Tongue overformal, speaking to an exotic childhood away from Westeros. Still, he thought he’d managed to impress the Godsgiven gift to humanity that had cooed to him as they pumiced and massaged his feet.

He’d left the spa feeling six feet tall, and was now treating himself to a poolside drink when a glimmer caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. It was one of the Stark clan, he saw, the tousle-haired cousin Jon. He supposed Jon was alright, if a bit overenthusiastic with hair products. Jon’s hair wasn’t the issue, though. Peering down at Jon’s feet, yes, that was a distinct shimmer of polish. The lightest possible shade of pink shone up at Tyrion, and Tyrion knew where Jon had been.

“Jon, right?” Tyrion needed to know his enemy.

“Aye?”

“Come, sit with me, have a drink. Enjoying the cruise?”

Jon slouched over to the deck chair Tyrion had patted invitingly, and sprawled into it. “Aye, s’alright. Never been on a ship this big afore.”

“Yes, it is a magnificently sized vessel. All sorts of things to see and do. Piano music, magic shows, spa…” Tyrion let the word linger in the air, waiting to see how Jon would respond. 

Jon’s shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. “Aye” was all he said in response.

“Come now, boy. No shame in a man enjoying a pedicure! I hope my love gave you adequate treatment?”

Jon wrinkled his brow at that. “Can’t be your love when I’ve already made plans to take them to dinner on Arbor Island when we dock.”

Tyrion’s heart sank, then lifted again. They wouldn’t reach Arbor Island for another few days, so he had time to fight back. “Jon, lad, I respect your youthful ardour. However,” Tyrion paused to choose his next words carefully, “never play against a Lannister when love is on the line. You will lose.”

Jon grinned, and insolently stretched out his legs so his painted toes sparkled in the sunlight. “We’ll just have to see about that, my Lord Lannister. The game is, as they say, afoot.”

Tyrion groaned internally at that, but let a twisted half-smile play on his face. “Drogo will be mine, Jon Snow. Mark my words. In the game of love, there is no middle ground.”


	34. #PlanningAhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by FrozenSnares

Shireen is comfortably lazing on her bed, watching another episode of _Breaking Bad_. She has been marathoning it with Rickon, but his recent disappearance makes it so that they are never going to finish by the time they dock at Arbor Island. During another lull of beautiful cinematography, Shireen checks her phone. She reminds herself that she is definitely not going to send him another text message. There are already two with no reply, and he usually replied, at the very least.

She has seen him fleetingly the past few days, and she briefly thinks that this feeling of missing him will be the rest of her future as soon as they dock. Reading through the text messages, Shireen frowns. She was definitely being forward enough. If anything, she was being too forward. How else was he supposed to interpret _spending the night in her room_?

Groaning, Shireen slumps on her bed. While the abrupt change of course gave them an entire month at sea, she had yet to move past _just dating_ Rickon. They were definitely dating. And she’d damn well let him know if he didn’t yet. Still, the distant feeling of sinking hits her again.

While Shireen was positive that all their interactions and kisses and dinners together meant something, her brain was still picking at her to just call it quits now. If he wasn’t going to put in the effort, then she definitely shouldn’t.

A small tap comes from her door, and Shireen frowns over at it. Slowly, she pushes her laptop away, walking over to the door. Just in the threshold of her room, Shireen finds a small note folded in half. Plucking it up, Shireen opens it to find a short scrawl.

_Dinner tonight? My treat._

Grinning at the paper, Shireen pulls out her phone to call Rickon. A muffled swear and loud _THUMP_ distracts her. The sound was right outside her door. Gripping the handle of the door, Shireen opens it and looks outside.

She is greeted with the sight of Rickon’s messy auburn curls, as he is hunched over and grabbing at his foot. She bites back a laugh, watching him rub his toes through her shoe. “You want some ice for that, buddy?” she asks.

Rickon snaps up at her voice. He jumps a bit on his other foot, gently setting the other down. “Shit,” he breathes out. “You weren’t supposed to find me.”

Shireen leans away from him, giving him a questioning look. While she’s a bit endeared with the message, she is quite aware that she does not have the appearance of an ideal girlfriend. “What was I supposed to find?” she asks.

Glancing around, Rickon pulls a small bouquet of flowers out from behind his back. He holds it out sheepishly, giving her a hopeful smile. Shireen reaches past the stems of the flowers to snag his wrist and pull him forward. Even stretched up on the balls of her feet, she can’t reach his mouth, so she pulls him down and lets him close the distance between them. Rickon does, wrapping an arm around her waist in the process. Shireen gasps against his mouth, taking a step closer to press their chests together.

Rickon drops the bouquet, emptying his hands and immediately filling them with her. His hands slide down to her hips before moving up to her ribs. Shireen wraps her hands around his neck, holding him down. His tongue nudges open her lips and Shireen meets him quickly, humming into his mouth. With a small chuckle, Rickon kisses her repeatedly before pulling away.

“And to think I was going to leave,” he teases, pecking her nose. His breathing is heavy, and he smiles, resting his chin on her head. “How long is it until dinner?”

Shireen smiles up at him. “Long enough,” she says, dragging him back into her room. The door closes behind them, the flowers forgotten in the hallway. Shireen has his mouth back against hers and her hands flat over the warm skin of his abs before Rickon pulls away again.

“Wait,” he says quickly.

Frowning, Shireen pulls away, wondering what was happening now.

“Not that,” Rickon says, pulling her hands back and hugging her close. “I just wanted to tell you something.”

Shireen places her hands flat on his chest, pushing him half a step away. “This isn’t about us docking soon, is it?”

“Yes,” Rickon says slowly. “Um. _So…_ I applied for a job. It’s… well, the free cruise of my brother’s wedding is over and I gotta do shit or whatever.”

“I don’t mind trying long-distance,” Shireen says, hoping she can encourage him in that route.

Rickon sighs, sitting onto the bed and pulling her into his lap. “But I do,” Rickon tells her.

“So the ship docks and we’re done?” Shireen asks. “Just… I’m back to sailing, and you get to live on land in the world’s worst telling of _The Little Mermaid_?”

“Only if I’m under a spell to be in love with you,” Rickon murmurs, hugging her closer and pressing his lips to her hair.

Shireen pulls away sharply, staring up at him. “Wait, seriously?”

Rickon chuckles, pulling her back and kissing her lightly on the lips. “Yeah, Shir. Do you really think I spend all my time watching shows I’ve already seen with someone I don’t like?”

Blinking slowly, Shireen looks around. “But where have you been the last few days?”

“I got a job,” Rickon tells her. “Here. On the ship. I’m gonna work here.”

“You’re staying?” Shireen asks, completely breathless. She feels her heart pounding because this was the last thing she expected from anyone. Shireen had been fully resigned to giving up life on a ship whenever she wanted to actually date someone. As it was, she thought that four weeks with Rickon was a miracle. This was entirely unprecedented.

“I do have to go home for a bit,” he tells her. “Check out like a proper guest, clear out the room… I should probably get more of my stuff, too, but I’m definitely coming back.”

Shireen grins, stretching up to kiss him again. They are both smiling too much to do any proper kissing, but Shireen still wraps her arms around his neck to pull him down over her. “I’ll go with you,” she offers. “I could help you pack, try to remember what flat land feels like…”

Laughing, Rickon braces himself above her. “We still have to do dinner,” Rickon tells her.

“Or,” Shireen starts slowly, “we could stay here… all night.”

Rickon’s face goes red, and he clears his throat gently. “We can do that, too,” Rickon says. “I, um, I wanted you to meet my parents, though.”

Shireen grins wickedly at him. “Do you want to meet mine, too?”


	35. #WhoseTurnIsIt?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA The Smut That Was Implied, by Jillypups and TBH a lot of persuading out of Bex. hahahaha
> 
> EDIT: Everyone involved is in their twenties. Arya is the youngest at like 21, 22.

“Whose turn is it?” Arya asks with a breathless giggle as she sits tailor style in the middle of the small space they’re in.

They’re hiding out on the top platform of the water slide in case someone notices that they set off a sprinkler in the banquet room, and they’ve just collapsed in a six legged heap after scrambling half-drunk up two stories’ worth of ladder rungs.

“Pod’s,” Gendry says, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth while he catches his breath on his back, one leg in her lap as he stares up at the starry sky. He’s wearing Arya’s bra though he’s too broad for it to be clasped on properly, and the neon green cups with black lace trim make him look like some sort of bizarre sexy merman in drag.

“No it isn’t, it’s yours,” Podrick says, leaning against the fiberglass mouth of the waterslide, ass on the ground and forearms resting on his bent knees, the bottle of half-drunk brandy dangling from his liquor-loose grasp. He’s got Arya’s shirt wrapped around his head and knotted in back like he’s Rambo. The world’s cutest shirtless Rambo Labrador puppy, who, she was sort of surprised to discover, is actually far more fit than the swim of his polyester shirt previously concealed.

“No, I’m the one who set off the godsdamn fire alarm,” Gendry says, and as if to remind everyone he rummages in his slacks pocket for his lighter, and in a few moments the little enclosed platform area is illuminated with orange warm light.

“And I’m the one who told everyone how I broke the law,” Pod points out logically and with good nature. Arya had shrieked _Truth or Dare?!_ as they ran down the corridor out onto the open, still-dark deck from the lack of lights in the huge pool. Podrick had shouted _Truth,_ and then told them all about it while they climbed up here to their little water slide crow’s nest.

“Oh yeah _that’s_ right, by lying about your age so you could get a job on a cruise ship.”

“It was still illegal,” Pod says with a grin that is equal parts shy and Fuck Yeah I Did That, though the shy drops away easily enough when he looks up at Arya. Thank the gods for brandy.

Arya grins right back at him, and even without a mirror she knows it’s wolfish, can feel the irreverence and hunger and that sort of trickster, puckish feeling she gets when she’s had a few strong drinks and a wicked good time. There’s other feelings staggering around her like drunks in a mosh pit, too, and she sways like she’s in a hammock as she lets them take over her thoughts. Not that it’s really _hard,_ imagining them kissing her and taking off her clothes, imagining them all in some sort of naked heap that she’s overheard that Oberyn guy murmur about to that super stoned professor. Not when they’re in these stages of undress.

She’s got Podrick’s white uniform shirt wrapped around her naked boobs and tied like a sash, and when she complained of being cold after Gendry dared her and Pod to switch clothes, Gendry gave her his own shirt as a jacket. Which is what earned him the bra as a thank you. One is smooth tanned skin and the other is paler with a thicker swath of dark hair on his chest, clearly less inclined to strut around shirtless than the other, which Gendry clearly has no problems doing even while wearing a lacy little underthing like it’s no big deal. But Pod is still hunkered over his knees in the shadow of the platform wall.

She leans over and plucks the bottle of Calvados from him, takes a warming swig and gazes up at the moon and the stars above before lowering her head and her gaze to regard them both.

“Well I’ve got a dare for the two of you,” she says, and her voice is deep-drippy-dip enough, bucking-bronco-rodeo enough that both young men stop their bickering and look at her, Gendry going so far as to sit up.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. _Come on Arya, you can pull this off,_ she thinks, because she’s been thinking about it ever since Podrick first unbuttoned his shirt and Gendry laughed in approval at his bravado.

Gendry grins now, guffaws a bit as he glances at Podrick with a warming amiability and something on the brink of conspiratorial.

“Go for it, then.”

“Yeah, let’s hear it,” Podrick says.

“I want you guys to kiss.”

“Kiss who?” Gendry asks quickly, pulling his leg from her lap and scooting towards her. “Kiss you?” Eager and adorable.

“Later, maybe,” Arya says with a one-shoulder shrug, and she slides a glance to Podrick who is staring at her like he already knows. Of course he knows. He observes rather than acts. Listens rather than speaks.

“Okay, so who?”

“Each other,” Podrick answers calmly, leaning forward to steal first the brandy from Arya and then the cigarette from Gendry. He takes a pull from the first and a drag from the second in quick succession.

“What, like on the mouth?” Gendry laughs again, looking back and forth between the others with a sort of cheerful incredulity.

“With _tongue_ ,” Arya clarifies.

“But that- but he’s a guy,” Gendry says, staring openly at Podrick now. “You saying you’re fine with that? Wouldn’t you rather kiss _her_? I know I would.”

Podrick shrugs. “Yeah, I would,” he says, and then he grins, brandy-brave, cigarette-quick. “But I already have, unlike you. Besides, you’re going to taste like booze the same way she will.” A drifting, wayward, smoke-slow glance her way as he takes another drag off the cigarette. Something about his frank assessment and mild mannered approach to sexual fluidity makes Arya inhale a shaky breath.

“Are you chicken, Gendry?” she asks, scooting forward herself so her knee touches Gendry’s, and when Pod follows suit they are all sitting in a tight circle of bumped up bent knees and curved spines.

It is stone still and silent for several moments as Gendry stares at her, and there’s something about the up and down of his gaze, and the wary-to-bolstered glances he keeps giving to Podrick. Finally he leans back, bracing a hand to the platform behind him. He jerks his head towards Pod.

“Not if _he_ isn’t,” Gendry says.

Arya slides her fingers over Podrick’s and snares the cigarette from him. “So what are you waiting for?”

“The magic word,” Gendry and Podrick say in unison, and the strangeness of that makes the three of them laugh.

Arya leans forward, elbows on her knees.

“Pretty please.”

And oh, how pretty it is as the two of them regard one another, and phrases like _You could cut the tension with a knife_ don’t do it justice, up here where it’s breezy and cool, where it’s stars and midnight and brandy and smoke, here where Podrick flushes and grins as he leans back in a mirrored pose of Gendry’s. And then they lean in, foreheads just touching and eyes closed as if to get into the moment or perhaps to try and forget it altogether, and Arya’s mouth opens with a breathless, airless gasp when they finally come together in a kiss.

A frozen, seared-on-your-eyelids moment where they neither of them move, two lovely boys caught in an orientation-swapping sliver of time before their jaws work and their mouths open, and it’s far slower than Arya had imagined they’d be, but she supposes she can thank the liquor for that, and she can’t _see_ anything but she can damned well imagine it, the rub of scruff and the wet slick of tongues, the taste of apples, the nicotine tingle and the way a good slow kiss can streak fire right down into your belly.

The kiss breaks. The curtain comes down, two mouths closing together, and their eyes are still closed as they pause, but then without prompt from her, their mouths open again. _There,_ there under the stars when Podrick tilts his head away from her, Arya sees the slide of tongues shine wet with moonlight.

“Seven hells,” she whispers without conviction, and before she can help herself she stubs out the cigarette and gets on her knees, climbs up onto Gendry’s lap and straddles him.

His free hand drifts up the curve of her hamstring, as close as it can to her ass before her cutoff jean shorts stop him, and then Podrick’s hand is on her other knee, a firm knead of finger pads and the stroke of a thumb. She presses her breasts against Gendry’s chest and drops a kiss to the exposed stretch of his neck as he keeps kissing Podrick, and Arya can hear it, the wet warmth of it, can basically feel what they’re doing with the slight movement Gendry makes beneath her.

And then he’s sitting up, the man she’s on top of, and his other hand comes up to skate a path along her spine until it’s burrowing under the shirt she’s got wrapped around her like a cheap tube top, and when she lifts her head Gendry kisses her throat, and when she turns towards him Podrick takes her by the chin and draws her in for a feel of his mouth and what Gendry tastes like on it.

It tastes _good,_ and it’s even better with the divided attention the whole of her receives now that there are two men to pay it, and when Pod scoots closer so that his thigh touches Gendry’s and she’s essentially straddling the both of them now, she is so warm that she doesn’t even shiver when they work together to unknot the shirt wrapped around her breasts. Back and forth she kisses them both, hot push and suck and nip, so many lingering drags of fingers along throats, the smooth of hers and the sandy stubble of theirs. Finally Arya lets her head sag back and she stares sightlessly up at the infinite wheel of stars above her.

Hands and mouths, at one point four of the former on her legs and ass, both of the latter latching on and kissing her breasts, tongue flicks making her jump in their laps, lovely lovely lips running hot paths to and fro across her chest until they’re gone. She has the fingers of her left hand in Gendry’s hair and the fingers of her right in Pod’s, and when she looks down at them it is as if she is pressing them into another kiss even though this time it is all their own doing and nothing to do with dares.

Arya moans.

Gendry leans back away from her and pushes Pod back, slowly until he’s lying supine on the platform floor, and Arya follows the movement so that she is lying on top of Pod while Gendry pins them together with the slide of his arm across her back. He stretches out beside them on his side as the two dark haired men kiss, strange and sexy twins that look more and more alike to her now though she knows now how differently they kiss and taste and touch. And then Podrick rolls Arya on her back to take greedy possession of her, and then Gendry is behind him and they are naked, and they are moving, and she holds Podrick’s head against her breasts as he sucks in a slow, shuddering moan, as Gendry echoes the sound above them both.

“Whose turn is it now,” Podrick asks after he licks into her mouth sometime later.

They are all on their backs letting the sweat dry, one knee each bent up towards the sky as they pass the near empty bottle of liquor to each other while they smoke Gendry’s cigarettes and occasionally giggle and mutter _Fuck that was hot_ and _What do you call that thing again, that one thing you did behind me._

It’s _more_ than just sometime later, more than just sometime after she and Gendry both helped guide Pod inside her, after the former man watched and touched himself in rhythm to the way they moved together, after everything swum and spun and shifted until she was pressed between them, Gendry thrusting into her from behind as she gasped into Pod’s mouth and clung to his shoulders, the three of them on their sides, sweating and stuck together like wet petals as they all kissed each other and touched each other.

“Everybody’s,” Gendry says, his hand sliding down Podrick’s chest as he posts himself up on an elbow, and she follows suit here on Pod’s other side, her leg hitching over his as she runs a touch down through the dark hair of his pale chest, her touch a chase of Gendry’s as they wrap their fingers around the base of him.

“Yes,” Arya says, grinning up at him before they both lower their heads, Arya's to his throat while Gendry scoots down to follow his hand, and she can feel Gendry's tongue on her fingers, can feel under her mouth when Podrick tilts his head back and inhales and lets loose a slow, heavy-cream sigh. “It’s everybody’s turn now.”


	36. #Stormy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, look. I don’t even know. If a brownie and some dogs can have POV chapters, then why can’t the ship, right? RIGHT? 
> 
> Written by vanillacoconuts. It's only short, but enjoy :)

 

She is gliding through the wondrous blue ocean. It surrounds her as she floats in the cool water. The idea of falling beneath it to the deep dark depths is a scary though, for she loves the warmth of the yellow ball in the blue sky as it shines down upon her. She has had friends who have been lost to the ever-changing waves, so she is always fearful that maybe one day she will meet her end and be lost forever where she can no longer see the light of day, where she can no longer see the top of the ocean as it shimmers in the yellow light. The sea is the father of all, and he has her trust for her life, and all those humans on board her. She is one with the sea, when he is calm, so too is she. 

  
Today though, today is a good day. The water is not freezing as it was during the dark times when the sky shines with white dots, all small except for one big one, making a beautiful sight. The sun, as she has heard humans call it, is high in the sky, warming her all over. Humans are walking all over her, and it feels so good. She imagines this is what humans feel when they get their bodies pushed and rubbed by that Ilyn human.  

_  
Ilyn…he’s gone. And with that boy with the yellow fluff on the tip of his body…_

  
She is not too worried about the two humans. The yellow one was a rude human, pushing that girl human with the long pretty hair into the pool. Ilyn and that boy are safe, she knows it, for they are with one of her sons, her mini ship, and he is a brave one.

  
Her human, the one with the hat, is taking her somewhere unknown. She has sailed many times, one many different water ways, but this is new. It is exciting getting to explore new water. This is a fun trip, one of her favourites so far. The humans on board all have happy looks, and there is so much love, she can feel it throughout her whole body. She only hopes that the last few days are as lovely and exciting as the rest of the trip has been. She, Stormy (as her other boat friends call her), is going to miss the humans, but she will never forget them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/27IhUVJ)  
>    
> 


	37. #MaidenVoyage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried! Sorry y'all!
> 
> Questionable chapter by SassyEggs  
> 

Cersei sat fuming at her cabin’s tiny desk, staring at her iPad. Or _scowling_ at her iPad, as the case may be.  One of the idiot room service boys had called her a cougar and that was just ridiculous- she was far too young to be a cougar, and the misunderstanding burned even hours later.

Worse, she’d run into Robert in one of his rare sober-ish moments, and while they had an entire conversation without any overt insults he had ended the interaction with a flippant comment that cut her to the quick.

“I don’t know why you’re running off so fast,” he’d laughed at her. “It’s not as if you _do_ anything.”

 _I do plenty!_ she told him now in her head.  Because what Robert didn’t know- what _nobody_ knew- was that Cersei was a writer.  And some day she would be a famous author, just like her favorite author Melisandre.

When she’d first seen the flashy red woman on board she’d ducked behind a deck chair, pretending to tie the non-existent laces on her flip flops. She’d spent the next few days skulking around after her but never quite working up the nerve to approach her, despite all the liquid courage.  Which was absurd- Cersei had met princes and presidents and celebrities of all kind and always handled it gracefully, but now… _now_ it was Melisandre, her idol, the woman who could capture love and romance perfectly with the written word.  She couldn’t just wander up and fangirl all over her; she wanted to be her peer, not her minion.

So here she sat, tapping out a few perfect paragraphs to show her idol, certain that as soon as Melisandre got one glimpse of Cersei’s talent she’d be calling her publisher and they’d become fast friends. Cause really, this was good, some of her best stuff- the story of a beautiful young lady, betrothed to a man who didn’t deserve her, and the only way out of the engagement was by losing her virginity to the dashing captain of the _Molten Mast._ And she was almost done, she just had to get this _one part_ right. 

_Cersine’s ample bosom was heaving in equal measures of one part fear and one part desire, large breasts round and firm as summer ~~peaches~~ ~~mangos~~ cantaloupe, and sweet as milk and honey. _

_“Please, be gentle,” she gasped. “I've never done this before.”_

_"Your maiden voyage," the dashing captain growled.  His_ _fingers wound their way into Cersine’s beautiful golden curls just as a hand gripped her hip and pushed her flush against the wall, a hand sliding up over her_ … wait, no, that’s too many hands.  How did she always wind up with too many hands?  Damn, smut was _hard_. 

Cersei quickly downed the last of the wine, frustrated with her own incompetence. This was always the part that gave her trouble.  Melisandre could really capture the true essence of sex and love, make it all come alive right there in the reader’s mind.  How did she write such brilliant smut?  And why couldn’t Cersei do it, too?  She had all the basic tools she could possibly need to write a love scene- wine, experience, Roget’s thesaurus- yet the perfect words eluded her.  No, not the words- she couldn’t even _envision_ it properly, how could she hope to write it when she couldn’t even think it? 

_Wine. More wine will help._

Stumbling across the cabin, she threw open the door intent on finding wine; she found something even better.

\-----------------------------------------

Hodor was wandering the hallways alone, something he’d been doing a lot lately since Bran had become friends with the young piano player. And while he sort of missed the boy, and the responsibilities, he didn’t mind this chance to get lost in his thoughts.  Ever since he’d seen Melisandre aboard, her stories were all he could think about.

 _Melisandre._ Her name hissed in his mind, crackling as if the letters were written with flame.  Melisandre was amazing- she had a really solid understanding of how love should work, how hot and consuming it was, and she always wrote her sex scenes with a creative eye for detail.  She really captured it just right, every book so perfect it had inspired him to write as well.  And the thing he liked to write about the most was smut.

As far as Hodor was concerned, there was no word sexier than ‘humping.’ It was almost Dickenson in the way it perfectly summed up the action, and just writing it always made his blood run hotter.  Not that he hadn’t tried to switch it up a bit.  He’d found a very useful list of romance terms in the Huffington Post, and for a while he had written about _pulsating need_ and _penetrating shafts,_ but ultimately he went right back to _humping._ He always came back to _humping._

See, there… all he had to do was think the word and he was hot all over. _Humping._ Just once he really wanted to try it instead of just read about it, certain that if he could experience it for himself he’d be able to write just like Melisandre.  Problem was, there was no realistic way that would ever happen.  He wasn’t exactly in a position to be approaching women, much less dating them, and none had ever approached _him_.  He certainly wouldn’t mind if they did.  He’d read lots and lots of Melisandre’s books so he was pretty sure he knew what women liked and what constituted a good humping.  He could give a woman what she wanted, if she would just give him the chance.  And then he’d have his inspiration to write more smut, better smut, with real details and not just ones he made up.

Hodor was just starting to wonder if he’d gotten himself lost again when a door in the corridor flew open, revealing a blonde woman who had definitely seen better and younger days standing crookedly in the doorway. He knew her, of course, since she was the mother of Robb’s bride, though she’d never really ever looked at _him_ before.  But right now her eyes were little blood-shot bumble bees buzzing all over him, and she seemed sort of fuzzy around the edges, and when she spoke the words came out all stumbly. 

“Would you like to help me out herrre, big guyyyy?”

He couldn’t say no to that. Literally.  He agreed with a ‘Hodor’ and followed her into the room.

\----------------------------------------------

He wasn’t exactly handsome. Or interesting.  And clearly not experienced.  But he was tall and masculine and present, so he would do.

_Cersine sidled up to the dashing captain, eager to feel his large hands on her soft and supple curves. He was not much to look at; in fact, he was what one might call dull, like taupe or one of those station wagons with the wood panels on the side.  But what he lacked in excitement he made up for in safety; he was exactly the sort of man that a virtuous maiden like Cersine needed._

_“Shall I disrobe, captain?” the young and beautiful girl gasped in a fetching manner. The man was so overwhelmed by the gift she offered he could hardly answer, was reduced to muttering incomprehensible syllables that sounded like ‘Hodor’ but clearly meant she was more stunning than he had ever imagined._

_She lowered her eyes demurely and turned away, too shy for him to see her though she knew this was how it was supposed to happen. She was a virgin still, and therefore was very nervous, so she took her time to unbutton her blouse, let it fall from her body before she slipped off her skirt and stood before  him in her naked golden glory._

_The dashing captain looked her up and down with wide, nearly-vacant eyes, too stunned by her beauty to do much more than stare. Really stunned, apparently, since it seemed they stood there for ages and Cersine wanted to reach for him and get the ball rolling already.  She didn't, of course, because she was a virgin and therefore didn’t know what to do and she had to remember that detail or this was never going to work._

_“Would you like to touch me?” she asked softly, very alluringly but quite innocently too._

_He did, of course, and stepped towards her, arms encircling her body as his hands began their thorough exploration. She did the same, pulling his shirt off before turning her attention to his trousers, her hands sliding below his waistband, nails raking against velvet sin and… that was an awful lot of velvet sin.  Jesus.  It was… kind of impressive, this throbbing masculinity, the rigid swelling in his loins surprising her in its fullness.  Holy hell._

_The dashing captain was clearly more experienced than Cersine had originally thought because while she was distracted with the experience of touching a manhood for the very first time, his mouth had sought her perfect pert nipples, caressed and teased her creamy skin and… she needed to lie down for this. She pushed him away and scurried to the bed in a charming fashion._

_Now sprawled enticingly on the bed, Cersine was enthralled by the sight of the dashing captain, completely naked and lumbering towards her, Oxnard swinging like a sword. Gods be good, that thing was huge.  When he finally climbed over her she was more than ready for that mighty spear to impale her petal-soft folds.  Instead, he slid down her svelte body and kissed the glistening portal of her womanhood, laved her nub, his tongue a torrid tornado against her pearl of passion._

_“Captain!”_

“Hodor?”

“Hush.”

_The pleasure! The delight!  Cersine’s young and inexperienced body was not accustomed to so much rapture and she thought she would fly if she didn’t die first from happiness.  But before either one of those things could happen he removed his talented mouth from her most secret place, and quickly pressed his gigglestick deep into her honeypot in one solid thrust._

_“Oh captain! My captain!”_

_Cersine was blind with ecstasy, writhing and thrashing under him, her passion-moistened depths squeezing his swollen shaft. He was plunging hotly into her sweetness, burning her with every stab of his sword, soaring higher and higher, and together they reached their peak in a frenzy of fiery thrusts, crashing waves of pleasure stampeding through her lithe body like a herd of angry buffalo while he exploded into her.  And when he had ridden out the last of his release he collapsed heavily on top of her, crushing her ribs with the force of his passion._

Dear god.

Well, that had totally been worth it. Cersei had never felt so relaxed.  Or satisfied.  Or _inspired._ She couldn’t wait to write all this down, it would knock Melisandre’s socks off for sure.  She just… needed to wait till she could move.  Once her muscles were working again she’d be tapping out smut like a boss, writer’s block now fully vanquished.

“Thank you.”

“Hodor.”

_____________________

Hodor made his way back to the deck, pausing only a moment to eyeball the ship’s captain at the front of the boat. The man was in his official uniform (though now much wrinkled) with his arms spread wide while his husband held him with one hand, other hand thumbing lazily at his cell phone.  It was at least the tenth time he’d seem them do that, but where before he thought it was weird now he only thought it was… sweet.  So that was love- beautiful, true, and simple love, the sort of genuine emotion he hoped he could capture himself one day, if not in real life then at least on paper.

Because his rendezvous with the over-experienced blonde had taught him a lot-  that some women’s skin felt like dry leather, for example, and sometimes breasts were lumpy and squishy like over-ripe avocadoes-  but also that love had nothing to do with mashing bodies together. Love was standing at the front of a boat and holding someone just cause they wanted you to.  And for a moment he thought maybe he could write a story about _that_ , about finding the other half of yourself, your soulmate, the person you were meant to be with forever, the yin to your yang, the peanut butter to your chocolate, the…

Oh hell, who was he kidding- he’d rather write about humping. He _always_ came back to humping _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works cited: 
> 
> ["The Most Ridiculous Sexual Phrases From Romance Novels"](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/06/16/romance-novel-phrases_n_7545244.html%20%20)  
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/RWLnX5Z)  
>   
>  _picset by ZoeSong_  
>   
> 


	38. #StayToPlay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written by FrozenSnares for my bb JIllypups

A loud _BANG_ accompanies the stumble that the two take. Hunched over as Rickon is, Shireen’s surprise only grows when his hands go to steady her instead of stopping himself from falling. He catches himself, though, keeping his mouth against hers. Shireen steps further into him, shaking back the long sleeves of the jacket he let her borrow so she can rub her hands under his shirt and against his bare skin. Somehow, he’s still warm, and Shireen wants him to heat her up.

Foregoing his chest altogether, Shireen tosses herself against him, locking her arms around his neck. Rickon gasps into her mouth, staggering under the unexpected weight. Shireen had again misjudged their height difference and her momentum. He takes a step back to right himself, but hits the discarded bouquet of flowers from earlier. The bouquet rolls under Rickon’s foot, and he topples over, holding her firmly with an arm around her hips and a hand bracing her neck.

The protection of that simple movement just adds onto everything else Rickon had done for her in the past few hours, and Shireen feels a deep pull toward him. She wants to curl up around him, be utterly trapped in his presence, and forget that anything else exists in this world. Pulling her hair to the side, Shireen leans over him, planting her knees at his sides to really kiss him, to show him that he’s done more for her on this one trip than anyone else ever has.

Deepening the kiss, Shireen grabs his face before she giggles against his mouth realizing what she just thought. Rickon gently pulls her away with a smile. He drags a finger across her forehead to smooth out her hair. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

“You fell for me,” Shireen tells him, sitting up a bit more and looking down at him. She knows that she’s far too low on his stomach, that she’s close to feeling whatever’s happening to him regardless of whether he wants her to, and she stops herself. Instead, she presses her hands to his chest and gives him a smile.

Rickon grins up at her. He slowly slides his hands up her sides, letting them slip below his jacket before brushing it off her shoulders with ease. “I fell for you a long time ago,” he says. “I’m going to be falling every day for a very long time.”

Shireen goes down to kiss him, and almost completely falls in her enthusiasm. The pounding of her heart grows louder in her ears, especially when Rickon’s hands don’t stop and he pulls the jacket from her arms. A shiver runs up her spine when his hands warm her up, spreading heat with slow, steady movements. Never before has Shireen desired for a moment to last forever, but this would be it. Nothing can best this feeling of safety—this feeling of _love_ — and Shireen sighs against his mouth.

Suddenly, she wants to feel every part of him. Shireen wants to dig into the primal desire that’s growing inside of her. Rolling over Rickon, she gets him on his side, thoroughly encompassed in kissing her and not at all concerned with the fact that they are still on the floor of her bedroom. His arms are still locked around her, and Shireen feels like a princess in spite of how much more she’s willing to beg for.

Rickon may proudly claim to be a wolf, but he looks as if he’s become prey when her hands quickly make work of his belt. He freezes against her, but Shireen is set on completion. She manages the button of his jeans and has found his zipper, when he pulls away.

“Hold up. Uh. Fuck,” he breathes out, bowing his head down.

Frowning at him, Shireen presses a palm to his abs as she continues moving his zipper down. “What?” she asks.

Snagging her wrist loosely, Rickon somehow gets them both sitting. She may be on the floor, but one of her legs is over his hips, and the other is behind him. It spreads out the skirt of her dress, making everything seem scandalous even when she isn’t prepared to stop.

“Just—” Rickon takes a deep breath, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to the crook of her neck. He looks up at her, sliding his arms around her back. “Are you sure?”

Giving him a smile, Shireen presses her fingers to his jaw and lifts him for another kiss. This is slower than the charged, heated, extreme kisses of before. Where the rush and chaos of chance encounters has fled, something permanent remains between them. There is a strong feeling of forever growing in this kiss that has slowed down—something that makes Shireen start hoping for the future. They pull apart slowly, meeting the other’s gaze with this new understanding dawning over them.

Digging her fingers under the hem of his shirt, Shireen lifts it straight up. His arms loosely follow her movement, letting her strip the fabric from his body. Shireen tosses it away, letting her hands wander over his shoulders and down his back as she kisses him again. “I’m definitely sure,” she breathes against his mouth.

Rickon leans into her and takes her mouth again. His palms press up to her shoulder blades, arching her back and pressing her chest into his. Then, his mouth starts trailing down. He isn’t bothered at all when he hits her scars, kissing over them on his quest down to the small exposed parts of the tops of her breasts. 

Shireen moans, fisting a hand into his hair. She wraps her legs around him, making her dress ride up further in attempt to get him closer. 

His fingers grip into her thigh, shifting her even closer. Letting out a small gasp, Shireen tries to move, but his hand just moves under her legs. When his grip is firm on her, Rickon rocks forward until he’s on his knees. He kisses the corner of her mouth twice before standing.

Grabbing onto his shoulders, Shireen finds her balance. It doesn’t stop her small yelp when he lowers her onto her bed. It makes Rickon chuckle, though Shireen doesn’t feel intimidated by his laughter anymore.

“Come kiss me,” she tells him.

In reply, Rickon leans back over her. His weight pins her to the mattress, and his hands settle under her. She knows that he’s keeping himself from gripping onto her ass, so she decides to make that move first. Releasing him from the grip of her legs, Shireen’s hands slide down his back and under the waistband of his jeans. There’s the brief give of soft flesh before the muscle tenses and he smirks at her.

“I don’t think it’s fair if you just get me naked,” he says. “I haven’t taken anything off of you.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Shireen asks back. She makes to remove the remainder of his clothes, but Rickon tightens his grip under her thighs.

Rickon leans into her again, kissing her deeply before circling her legs even more. His hands find the edge of her underwear, and he skims his fingers over the thin fabric. Humming into her ear, Rickon presses two knuckles up, rubbing at her in the small space. “Well, you definitely _feel_ ready,” he says. Rickon rubs at her again, giving her a light kiss. “Gods, I want you so much.”

Before Shireen can reply, Rickon is kissing her fiercely again. His hands hold her face, leaving the small touch of dampness that Shireen definitely knows the source of. He pulls up her dress as she did his shirt, throwing it near his discarded clothes. His distraction of looking over her body only lasts a second before his hands struggle with the clasp of her bra. During that time, Shireen slides the rest of his clothes off, letting them pool around his ankles.

He kicks off his shoes before climbing out of his clothes and onto the mattress with her. “Fucking hells,” he mumbles, rolling over so she’s sitting on his stomach again. “How the fuck do you take this thing off?”

Shireen laughs again, tossing her head back. She partially slides off of him, stretching out to fish through her bedside table. “How about I take this off, and you can put this on?” she asks, holding up a condom between two fingers.

Lunging forward, Rickon kisses her deeply. His hand fumbles against hers to take the condom. Then, his hand falls to her ass again, squeezing it possessively before he leaves her to give attention to his erection.

Making quick work of her bra, Shireen intercepts his hands to stroke over the length of him. He makes a small choking sound, giving her a pleading expression. “ _Please?_ ” he whimpers, jaw dropping as she repeats the motion.

Shireen can’t help but grin at watching his reaction, seeing him completely undone and entirely at her mercy in this moment. His eyes shut tight, and Shireen takes the opportunity to slide down and run her tongue over the length of him. Rickon’s hand combs her hair back, and his expression is nothing but pleading now. Taking her time, Shireen slowly strokes over him before letting her tongue wander again. She repeats her actions a few more times before finally sliding the length of him into her mouth and sucking on him.

Rickon’s gasps grow louder, and she sees the effort of his breathing. He clutches at the sheets of her bed, furrows his brow, and looks up to the ceiling. Shireen has never felt more like a predator, like she has slain a man. Rickon murmurs out an incoherent string on encouragements, and he slowly seems to regain control of himself. His hands start wandering again, finding her legs and rubbing at them. He even manages to completely strip her down to nothing during her time pleasuring him.

Perhaps best of all, Rickon pulls her away before he can finish. He kisses her deeply, sitting up and hugging her close. He looks back at her with half-lidded eyes, sending a refreshing spark of heat back to her core, and his words only amplify it when his hoarsely says, “Now, _you_.”

Shireen feels as if those two words alone have turned her to jelly, particularly when he puts her flat on her back and spreads her legs. She sucks in a sharp breath when he fits his mouth to her, letting his tongue do a lot of exploring and bringing her waves of pleasure. The sensation of it is so heightened in her mind that she remembers nothing other than the feeling. Only the build-up can’t be satisfied with just his tongue, and she drags him up with a tight fist in his hair.

“Can you just fuck me?” she breathes out, earning herself a mischievous smirk from Rickon. 

He kisses her over and over again, keeping her thoroughly distracted while he fumbles with the condom between them. Finally, he gives up on doing it blindly, sitting back to roll it on properly. Shireen can’t keep the smile from her face, especially when she’s so relaxed against her pillows watching her boyfriend get ready to fuck her. It’s even better when he leans back over her, trying to guide himself in while kissing her. She helps him, dictating his speed with gentle pressure until he is at his deepest.

“Have I told you that I love you?” Rickon asks, kissing her again.

“Twelve times,” Shireen replies. Not that she’s counting, but she can distinctly recall every instance.

Rickon pulls out of her slowly before pressing into her again. “Let’s add onto that,” he says, finding his pace with the steady throb of her heartbeat encompassing him. “ _Oh,_ I love you, Shireen,” he sighs.

With her arms around his back, Shireen kisses him at every instance. She lowers a hand to the base of his spine to keep tempo with him, to dig him deeper into her on every single beat. Their breaths grow heavier, and Rickon increases his speed. He pulls one of her legs up, hooking it over his arm to better get at her and find other spots within her.

It completely does the trick, and Shireen is soon gasping with every thrust, every slap of his hips against hers. Clutching at him, Shireen feels every muscle in her body tightening, the tension building to the point of no return. She whimpers into his ear, locked against his body. Rickon’s pace increases the smallest amount, and he shushes her gently.

“Let it happen,” he breathes out. “Relax… Let me feel you.”

His words wash over her, and Shireen can feel herself pulling at him, drawing him impossibly deeper into her. Rickon stifles a sharp gasp before his pace is lost, pushing into her erratically before slowing and stilling.

Suddenly, all her other senses spark back to life. The cool air chills the sweat on her skin, making her colder than before, and the heat seems to have fled her body completely. Rickon is only just holding up his weight above her, and she brings him down completely, letting the physical reality keep everything perfectly composed in her memory.

Because it was perfect. Everything about it fell together so seamlessly, that it seems impossible that they only started dating four weeks ago, that they didn’t know of the other before the ship set sail, that they would be sacrificing everything for the possibility of having each other.

Hugging Rickon tight, Shireen presses kisses to his temple until he turns to receive one on the lips. Then, they kiss for what seems like forever. The lazy moment lingers between them and around them, and Shireen would wish for time to freeze were it not for the future that lies ahead. Soon, she will spend every day and night with Rickon, and nothing will stop them from loving each other in every way possible. He doesn’t have to leave—isn’t going to disappear like everyone else did. He had chosen _her_ at the end of the day, and she was damn well going to make it worth it.

And that alone is enough to get her sitting up again, beckoning him into the bathtub with her to prepare for whatever lies ahead.


	39. #QueensRule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Varys and Cersei come to an understanding.  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  by AsbestosMouth and ZoeSong  
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/1G6oTy1)  
>   
> 

Cersei was outraged. She’d looked everywhere she could think of that Joffrey would be, and had not found him. She’d deigned to look _herself_ because she didn’t trust the morons on this ship to find their own arses, let alone her son (and because she hated to admit that she couldn’t locate her own son. Joffrey had always been _difficult_ ).

But he wasn’t answering her texts or phone calls, nor those of Tommen or Myrcella (she and Robb had come up for air long enough to sun themselves by the pool briefly, hinting not so subtly that she might soon be a grandmother before slipping back into the murky depths of their stateroom). As if that wasn’t enough, she’d been mortified to find that the big lunkhead she’d had a brief, but satisfying encounter with had absconded with her laptop and given it to Melisandre – who’d read her masterwork and – laughed. So ended a promising writing career. And worse, Cersei couldn’t even get a massage to relieve the tension that was threatening to make this cruise even more of a nightmare than it already was. The damn masseur was always changing her appointments.

So Cersei had been forced to seek help. She gritted her teeth and headed to the concierge desk to speak to that Oaf Woman.

As she approached the desk she saw that Oaf Woman wasn’t there. Instead there was… _him_.

*****

Varys wasn’t usually inclined to stoop so low as to fill in for menial help, unless the needs of the many outweighed the desires of the few, but this was a mission of mercy. And after dealing with that water disaster in the banquet room, he needed one. Dear Brienne. Transparent as a great big glass window, even if she tried to hide it. He’d long had a suspicion about the woman, because frankly that was his job and he was excellent at it, and today it had been confirmed. Upon the earliest of his regular patrols he glided towards Brienne’s door and, she had slipped out awkwardly (everything she did was rather awkward, aside from the swan dive she’d done to rescue that Lannister fellow from the drink). Flushed. She looked rogered senseless. Varys, despite his impeccable dress and usual professionalism, understood – the dear girl looked as shagged as he felt. Sugar did things to a man.

And she was not dressed to her usual impeccable standard. A slightly rumpled and miss-buttoned blouse, a tuft of hair ruffled up at the back, and a distinct lack of hosiery confirmed what he already suspected. A glimpse of a man’s golden hair, and a glance of a face resembling the most handsome of the heads of the Many Faced God (that body was _divine_ , Lords, that _stomach_ ) through the crack in the door told him that the _who_ was also as surmised. 

Brienne stopped, startled, pulling the door firmly behind her and attempted to make him believe that nothing was out of the ordinary. He gave her the eye and she at first looked uncomfortable, but then he saw a glint there that he liked. Good girl. 

He leaned in slightly, lilac and rosewater. “If you don’t get back in there, _I will_. Darling, that chest!”

Brienne stammered something about missing her shift, but he just told her sweetly, drawling, and this was definitely an order, “You owe me one. Or perhaps two.”

She looked surprised, but a gleam came into her eye and she said severely, “Upon my honor” and disappeared back into the cabin.

Varys waited for a moment, ear pressed against the cabin door, and was gratified to hear “Wench! You came back!”

Varys shimmered away, back straight, head high, and feeling superior. Fairy Godmother deed of the day done indeed.

*****

“ _You_.” Cersei could hardly keep the disdain out of her voice. 

“May I help you, madam?” His tone dripped with obsequious distaste.

Cersei hesitated. And plunged ahead. Her wineglass was empty, so she would not mince words. “I _demand_ to know where my son is. I heard a rumor earlier that a lifeboat was missing. Has he fallen overboard and no one has informed me? If so why has no one rescued him and brought him back?”

Varys gazed, cool and unruffled and disapproving. “A little bird told me that it was very likely _your son_ who purloined the lifeboat for a joyride. It is most lucky that I insist we carry more than the maximum required under the Maritime and Shipping Act.” 

“How _dare_ you make such an accusation!” Cersei could feel her fury rising. Nobody accused her beloved first-born of such a prank – especially in public (privately, she’d admit to herself that Joffrey was capable of much worse. She was _still_ paying for the “butcher boy incident”). “If you don’t help me find my son, and quickly, you will be _extremely_ sorry.”

“Madam, I am _never_ sorry.”

She drew herself up, her eyes narrowing. “Do you know who I am?”

“For my many sins, yes I do, madam. I am in charge of this cruise after all.” The large man before her, in the perfectly pressed uniform and the tasteful makeup, ran his eyes over her with a strangely critical glitter, as if assessing. He stared at her shoes, the high heels with the red soles, and snorted. 

Cersei was momentarily speechless, but recovered quickly. “Then you will turn this boat around and _find my son_ , before I call my lawyers and _destroy_ the entire company!” 

_Varys_ (the ridiculous name on his badge; people should have names suiting their status) blinked just the once.

“You touch _my_ ship, _my_ captain, or _my_ crew, _madam_ , and I will not be responsible for my actions, _dear_.” 

Now Cersei liked camp men. She collected them. She met enough of them since she employed an entire team of hair stylists, manicurists, Botox specialists (whom she had sign watertight contracts to say she never had _any_ work done) and others who kept her looking enviably young and gorgeous. It was fun discussing men with them, and she was some sort of cougar goddess surrounded by her adoring followers. At least they appreciated. But _this_ man was not one of her adorable, bitchy (hot, always hot, which was unfair, and all the best ones were gay) employees. He looked deadly serious, and not a little dangerous, perfect eyebrow arched (She needed the name of his cosmetologist. Like yesterday). Well, she was deadly serious too.

“I can do what I like–” 

“Cersei.” Varys cut her off, to her shock. No one _did_ that. And he used her name, the _cheek_ of the man, as he prodded her lightly on the chest. “Stop being a bitch for the first time in your life and finally listen to the bigger queen than you, _princess_. You come onto _my_ ship, you shag _my_ boys, you _kvetch_ , you play the _shiksa_ to get what you want, but, darling, you have no power here. Nada. Now run along on your seriously _awful_ knock-off Louboutins.” He finished with an enviable flourish, waving a finger, hand on his hip. He had spoken a lot with his hands during his little diatribe.

“Who _are_ you?” Staring. Cersei suddenly knew she was defeated; she was out-queened. Checkmate. The queen was dead. All hail the queen. 

“Dear, I am more woman than you’ll ever be, and more man than you’ll ever get.” 

She gave in to impulse. She grabbed his arm, shaking him lightly. “Who does your eyebrows? They are so _on fleek_.” She didn’t even try to keep the desperation out of her voice. 

“Oh, just me.” Varys seemed to preen. 

Cersei had an intuition: he had a love bite, expertly concealed but she had used the technique before so many times for the same issue and therefore _knew_ , just under his ear. Perhaps he had a sexy young boyfriend who had many sexy young straight male friends who needed a woman who knew what she was doing. Maybe his sexy young boyfriend knew that boy with the spectacularly mobile eyebrows who blushed at her but got slightly distracted by those ridiculous teenagers. She wondered if she had a slight eyebrow fetish. She had once had magnificent eyebrows herself – and knew how to use them. But they had suffered lately. 

“Can we do mine?” Joffrey drifted somewhere in the ocean, possibly dying of dehydration, but Cersei squeezed the arm of her new best friend. Eyebrows were far more important than her (highly difficult, endlessly frustrating, possibly psychopathic) son as they could lead to spectacular and meaningless sex with a variety of good-looking younger men. Joffrey would be fine, someone must be with him. He seemed quite resilient. 

“If we must. If we go to my cabin there will be an entirely edible chef face down and recovering in my bed, and anyway, I think we should raid the salon. No one else uses my makeup, that’s thoroughly unhygienic.” 

Cersei mentally ran through the chefs. Enormous, scarred and shouty was screwing that stupid Stark girl who was not prettier than herself but was clearly a slut. There were several others, but since Varys’ uniform seemed to be emitting a vanilla sugar essence, he must be with the talented but seriously overweight and slightly sweaty pastry genius whose divine creations had so tempted Cersei this voyage that her clothes fit rather less well (that wasn’t the wine, of course). “Pastry chef?” 

“Good girl. I might whip you into something vaguely human after all.” He took her arm, snapped his fingers like the best drag queen diva (which he had to be, that was just too perfect, that shrieked of _experience_ ), and a nervous-eyed minion took Varys’ place. Or Oaf Woman’s place, whatever it was. 

“I want to be fabulous, like you.” 

“ _Darling_. No one is as fabulous as me.” 

***** 

“What is this?” Post-coital moments called for something, usually a cigarette, but Brienne did not seem the type to have sneaky tobacco products in her cabin. Given her impressive fitness and stamina, the woman packed some serious workout time into her busy schedule. 

Jaime poked the thing with a curious finger. Its wrapper crinkled healthily. 

“It is a granola bar.” 

He poked it again. Again it rustled. It was the sort to be wrapped in waxed paper rather than plastic, so as to lessen the eater’s carbon footprint. Tyrion would call it hippy shit, and cackle. Jaime did not trust it. Where he came from things in wrappers shaped as bars should be smothered in chocolate and send him bouncing off the walls for hours at a time. 

Brienne unwrapped hers, lips wide and plush about the crumbly oaten goodness. 

That proved really interesting to his little Kingslayer. 

“And,” she added, “the oat base means the more complex carbohydrates are released slowly, and therefore you have more stamina, rather than quicker sugars that just give an energy burst. Keep you going for longer.” 

He caught her eye. Understood. Unwrapped the entire thing and shoved it in his mouth. It wasn’t bad, really. Perhaps he could get used to this. 

***** 

Joffrey could feel his shoulders turning pinker. Ilyn had used coconut oil to massage him, sending Joffrey into a wriggling sandy mass of limpid relaxation. Not turned on, _no way_. Joffrey was a tits kind of man (and not saggy man ones, either). Just, those hands were insanely _good_ , no wonder Mother spent half of her life being rubbed down (the other half being spent on fillers, plumpers, wine, and men sometimes younger than Joffrey). 

If things came to it, he was perfectly willing to kill and eat Ilyn, but that would mean no more massaging, Which would suck balls. 

It was kind of peaceful being massaged and eating coconuts and wild strawberries, making the weird guy do all the shit. Joffrey wound up lying on a litter of palm leaves, being hand fed exotic fruit. His voice refused to come back though, probably from drinking gallons of seawater, so everything happened in crude hand gestures. 

No. Not like that. 

When his cellphone dried out he’d send Mother a text to say he still lived, and that it was cool, he was just hanging out. All cool, bro. 

***** 

Goddess. 

Cersei threw her head back, hair tumbling in glossy balayage waves, perfect ombre lips parting. Varys? Genius. Even if he bitched about how she washed her hair and her inattentively lax skin care routine. Her cheekbones never seemed so razor, her eyebrows so leonine. It was like being herself but amped to the max, the most Cersei she ever could be. He had lent her one of his many designer caftans, in a golden leopard print since he told her to play up being a cougar because she was the alpha lioness and could make basic bitches bleed. The silk slithered, and the boys at the pool turned away from the scrawny teenagers and fell over themselves to bring drinks. 

Robert walked into a door at the sight of her. It felt viciously victorious. 

Varys (BFF now, until the end of eternity) told her to expect a present, and when it came in the form of an intriguingly unusual young man, she was not surprised. 

“A woman is feline,” he said as he massaged her feet (and the pedicure was better than anything that sexy Drogo could do, even if Varys was not as attractively formed). “A woman is fierce.” 

Apparently this “present” was very good at role-play; you could even think he became someone else in the bedroom. Cersei – bronzed and glowing and primped and feeling fabulous as fuck – was quite up to seeing if Jaqen lived up to his enviable reputation. 

***** 

“Target neutralized. The things I do for this bloody ship, darling.” 

“Aw, duck, you took one for the team. Want me to give one back to you?" Hot Pie, naked and cuddly and intensely mind-blowingly bearishly delectable, seductive in that rounded sugary cherub way, whipped out his arm and pulled Varys straight back to bed. 

***** 


	40. #MyBoyfriend'sBackAndYou'reGonnaBeInTrouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Jillypups

When Stannis wakes up he’s surrounded by Hershey’s Kisses wrappers, ten television remotes, an ashtray with three origami cranes made out of silver dragon paper money, and a large tumbler glass on the nightstand with a goldfish in it. The bed is otherwise a nest of various afghan throw blankets, an old overcoat and the crocheted blanket Shireen has had since she was a baby. Next to him Davos is propped up on most of the pillows, playing Two Dots on his phone and muttering under his breath from time to time, but when Stannis stirs and lifts his head from an inflatable hemorrhoid seat cushion, Davos slides a resigned sort of look to him over the rims of his reading glasses. It is the look of a kindergarten teacher after the children declare themselves Lords of the Flies, a mingle of love and I Don’t Get Paid Enough For This Shit.

“Before you even ask, we’re out of brownies,” Davos says.

“Brownies?” His voice is hushed like he’s at a funeral and maybe he is, as a prickling sensation of mortification makes the hairs on his neck stand on end.

“You’ve been higher than a kite for nearly a month, Stannis.”

It’s a moment of this near-tangible sort of horror that descends on him at the same time the memories come flooding up. Brownies stuck in his teeth as he laughed and laughed – _him,_ Stannis Baratheon, Captain of the Storm’s End and master by rights of its occupants, _laughing_ – and the bizarre sensation of levitating, the wind in what little is left of his hair, Davos’s arms around him, the cold splash of dark water.

“Oh, no,” he says, hauling himself up into a sitting position. A ferret pokes its head out from under a blanket.

Davos sighs.

“Oh yes _,_ ” he says, tossing his phone on his own nightstand as he scoops up the ferret and gets to his feet.

“Wait, if we’re here then who’s steering the ship?”

“Jorah and Sam are on temporary duty.”

Stannis blanches at the very idea.

“Davos, I am,” he starts with an immediate stop. He hasn’t had to apologize to his husband since the horrible Monopoly argument of 2012. But then he has a flash of eating a macaroni necklace he named Heart of the Ocean. He winces and shakes his head. “I am _very_ sorry,” he says with a sigh as he scrubs his face with his hands, and he is both shocked and mortified to find he’s sporting a thick beard. He frowns as he feels something hard in it, and after pulling the foreign object free he looks down at it. It’s a green Froot Loop.

“Don’t be sorry,” Davos sighs, coming around the bed with the ferret tucked into the crook of his elbow, and with his unoccupied hand he helps Stannis out of bed. “To be honest, I’ve never seen you so carefree. I think it- well, I think it was probably good for you.”

Stannis grimaces. Carefree is not a word in his vernacular.

“Here, let’s get you in the shower. Aside from a few falls in the pool, you really haven’t been tending to your personal hygiene much,” and when Davos leads him into their bathroom, Stannis nearly sucks in a gasp at his disheveled appearance.

“I have to say, I’m glad to see you’ve got your wits about you,” Davos says after Stannis has scrubbed his body from head to toe and back again, ignoring the brief flare of pain at the base of his spine – it’s probably a bruise from falling into the pool - and he’s rinsed and dried off and brushing his teeth for the third time.

Stannis looks at his husband through the mirror. Inexplicably the ferret is gone, and Stannis thinks _Good riddance_ and _Where in seven hells did the thing get to_ with equal measure.

“Why? What’s been going on?”

Davos inhales a long, slow breath before letting it out with the same sort of patience. “You might want to sit down for this.”

 

“A man’s been enjoying another man, apparently,” Jaqen murmurs to the sea as he sidles up next to Oberyn, silent and slinking like a shadow cat. Suddenly Oberyn has a hankering for lunch in the Lorathi style.

Oberyn hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the prow railing as the two men lean over it and gaze out at the little bump of Arbor Island on the horizon.

“Enjoying is a sufficient word, though it leaves much to the imagination.”

“A man has imagination aplenty,” Jaqen says lightly. “Especially when that man shares one wall with the other man and another with the man’s niece.”

“Ah,” Oberyn smiles. Martell surround sound. He almost wishes he could have been the fly on that wall. Or the other. “And yet you were all alone?”

“A man does not kiss and tell,” Jaqen says.

Oberyn chuckles, pushes off the railing and turns to lean against it as he folds his arms across his chest and gazes askance to the Lorathi.

“Well, does a man tell another man if he got to fu—”

Suddenly there is a loud _WHAT_ shouted from within the Captain’s staterooms just behind them that cuts off Oberyn with a bellow, and Jaqen turns in time to see, along with Oberyn, their beloved – if not a bit stiff, and not in the fun way – Captain darting out of his rooms towards the spiral staircase that leads up to the bridge, and the stairs rattle with metallic clangs as the hastily half-dressed Captain Baratheon takes them by twos to get to the control room.

“Huh,” Oberyn says with a frown, and he thinks he could be mistaken, but no, that was definitely a brand new—

“A man didn’t know a Captain had a tramp stamp of an eggplant.” Jaqen’s eyebrows are raised as he gazes at Stannis, and if Oberyn isn’t mistaken, the look on the Lorathi’s face is one of mild, aloof, approval.

“Don’t be crass, Jaqen,” Oberyn says with the patience of a septon as he pushes himself forward in an ambling stroll. “Tramp stamp is offensive and outdated,” he says as he puts a little panther to his step once Willas emerges from the ship’s interior. “I prefer to call them ‘Calling Cards,’” he says, wondering what kind of tattoo Willas would get and where.

 

Stannis is breathless by the time he gets up onto the bridge, which is why the sudden emergence of Cersei Lannister from around the corner renders him utterly speechless as he runs directly into her. Instead he squeak-shrieks like a petrified woman and to be frank he rather feels like one, given the Medusa-intense look of smug contentment Cersei’s wearing.

“What are you doing up here,” he manages to pant out as he sidesteps out of the way of her one woman parade. Stannis shrugs into his shirt and buttons it as quickly as he can.

She lifts a leopard-print shoulder and tilts her head, takes a long sip of cocktail she’s carrying in a pineapple cup.

“Hodor,” she says enigmatically as she drifts down the stairs humming “I Put a Spell On You” under her breath.

Stannis shakes his head in confusion as he hurries on towards the control room where he can see Jorah and Sam playing Ro Sham Bo through the window.

“Mr. Mormont, you _swore_ to me I could go, that I’m ready to take on more responsibility with the tours. I think it’s perfectly reasonable to leave me here while you take the guests.”

“I said more responsibility on the _tours_ , not with the whole bloody ship,” Mormont says.

“But Mr. Seaworth is here to help if I need it,” Sam insists.

“Mr. Seaworth has his hands full with the Captain, Sam,” Jorah scoffs, clearly unaware that the Captain in question is standing right behind them. “Or have you not noticed that the man’s been stoned out of his gourd this entire time?”

“Luckily he is stoned no longer, Mr. Mormont,” Stannis says crisply, straightening his spine as both men jump and spin around.

“Stan- Mister- Captain, ser, it’s so good to see you, uh, up and about, ser,” Sam says, chin quivering as he struggles to find his words.

“Yes, thank you, Sam,” Stannis says, giving Mormont a stern glare. “Now, as you can see, there is no need to choose between you for the upcoming tour. You both shall go, as I am clearly in full possession of my faculties and am more than qualified to run this ship in your absence.”

“Yes, ser,” both men mumble in unison, heads bowed as they exit the control room in single file.

“And Jorah?” Stannis asks as he runs his fingers lightly over the beloved control panel of his beloved ship. He glances over his shoulder.

“Ser?”

“For the love of every merciless god in this godsforsaken realm, _please_ don’t screw up the tour.”

Jorah gives him a sharp nod and a Cub Scouts salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

Stannis sighs and hopes for the best.

“Ser?” Sam says, poking his head back in the door after Jorah hurries out.

“ _Yes,_ Sam,” Stannis says, only a tad impatiently. His fingers yearn to push buttons and pull levers, to steer and to guide and to rule. He turns with his hands on his hips and raises his eyebrows as he gazes at Tarly in the morning sunshine.

“You um, you missed a button on your shirt, ser.”


	41. #boilermaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Davos enjoy some quiet time, by bookhoor (and sort of bookhoor's husband)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this because of a text my husband sent me apropos of nothing, wherein he commented that he could see Davos and Brienne being bros.

It is less than 24 hours til the ship docks at Arbor Island, and Davos has never been so relieved at the thought of terra firma before. This cruise has easily topped his list of five weirdest life experiences. Actually, scratch that, this cruise is responsible for at least four of his five weirdest life experiences. Still, he muses, it wasn’t all bad. He glances down at his necklace, a half-gnawed chain of macaroni pieces. It looks like something Shireen would have brought home from preschool but features the distinctive bite left by Stannis and his chipped left canine. He can’t recall Stannis ever being so relaxed, and that’s definitely worth something.

Brienne is exhausted. She’d stepped on board a month ago, thrilled to be working under the famed Captain Stannis Baratheon, former admiral in His Majesty’s Navy and current cruise runner, and now she didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. For one, she seems to have procured a boyfriend at some point. They haven’t actually talked about it, but she’s pretty sure that’s what Jaime is. If he just wanted to have sex with her, he wouldn’t actually talk to her as much as he did, she thinks. She supposes she had better take him home to the Sapphire Isle at some point, her father will want to meet him. 

Davos looks around the room. It is noiseless, blissfully empty. Stannis doesn’t actively encourage staff-passenger fraternization but rules have flown off the ship with their no.4 lifeboat and so the staff-only bar has remained largely unused. Davos is happy to enjoy his single malt scotch (Glenfarclas, aged 17 years, worth every one of the well over hundred gold dragons he’d paid for it) in solitude. 

The door swings open and shut again, and Davos is briefly irritated, until he sees who it is. Brienne is not a talkative sort, but a solid, quiet sort of friendship has emerged between the two of them. Brienne reminds him of Marya, his teenage sweetheart. They look nothing alike, but exude the same strong character. He raises his glass to Brienne, to draw her attention, and then walks behind the bar to pour her a beer from the domestic tap.

She slouches onto a bar stool, and Davos can see love bites peeking out from under her starched collar. It would seem the insanity of this cruise has extended even to the ship’s most upright employees, he muses. He passes her the beer and returns to his own stool, and they sit together without speaking, both enjoying the peace and not wanting to break the silence.

Finally, Davos feels like he should say something. “So,” he ventures, “how have you liked your first cruise with the Baratheon Brothers?”

Brienne snorts, an unladylike honk that she manages to turn into a cough when she realises she’s sitting with one of the founding shareholders of the company.   
“Apologies sir,” Brienne blushes, “I’m not sure how to answer that. It’s been a learning experience to be sure, but when I was hired, I was not given to believe this was how cruises would go.”

Davos waves her apology away with a grin. “No, no, I can assure you that this is not how _any_ of us planned this cruise to go. Things happen though, and I have to say that I am impressed with how well you’ve managed to roll with the punches.”

Brienne blushes again, and Davos continues, in a more serious tone. “I can speak for Stannis and I both when I say that we would be sorry to see you go, but we will understand if you choose to end your contract early and seek employment elsewhere.”

Brienne’s eyes widen at that, and she is quick to respond with a resounding “No, sir, no! I mean, it’s been unusual, but I will not abandon my post. I made an oath, and I will not break it.”

Davos is secretly thrilled that he will not lose his bastion of sanity, but outwardly gives Brienne a terse nod and as he finishes his scotch and prepares to return to the wheelhouse, he snaps his heels and gives Brienne a sharp salute, which she returns instantly, jumping to her feet and saluting back with a crisp “Sir!”

Yes, Davos and Brienne both think. This cruise did not go as planned in any way, but it’s ended exactly how it was meant to.


	42. #CustomerSatisfactionGuaranteed

**Thinking only about this ship and your experience on this BBP vacation:**

> "Your lifeguards are AMAHHHZING"  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “Twins and teenaged girls should not be allowed near the pool. They are a hazard.”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “Everything was excellent and everything was VERY MAGICAL it was brilliant!”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “Please ensure that all guests and crew members are searched for illegal substances. I was particularly run ragged due to certain Iron Island boys flaunting their caches of drugs. Really, Stannis. We could be in such trouble if you flagrantly continue to disregard possible substance abuse amongst younger guests/crew. Perhaps a sniffer dog may be purchased? I know a man in Braavos if you so wish.”  
>  –Varys  
>  “I had a simply wonderful time, thank you to all of the crew for being just wonderful. Isn't it a lovely day? Birds singing, sun shining - oh, no, it's raining, but still. A wonderful day, full of promise and happiness and just wonderful people. I am just thrilled to be allowed to be a part of everything :)”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Very gud. I like cruises. Cruises are my favourite thing ever!”  
>  –Summer  
>  “For a ship called 'Storm's End', the weather was perfect, with no storm in sight!”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “I am the ship.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “Ya fuckin cunts have the shittiest mini bars and y'know why? My brother's had a stick up his ass since the day he was born. He came outta our mama and I said- I said HEY LOOK IT'S A BABY POPSICLE fuckin' Stannis, ya cheap shit, who charges four grand for a fuckin stateroom and puts black velvet in he mini bar??”  
>  –Bobby

* * *

**Overall experience with Crew Friendliness/Courtesy of…**

> “Cutest bartender ever!!! He's no lifeguard but one day I bet he'll be my BIL. <3”  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “The service here was NOT fit for a queen! A major disappointment! But what can you expect from a Baratheon? The masseur, though... And that cabana boy..”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “My favourite person was Master Oberyn because he let me be his Magician's Assistant for the cruise because he saw my potential as an expert magician because he can sense true magicians blood.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “I would like to commend Sho--I mean, Head Chef Sandor Clegane on EXCELLENT service during this cruise. Food service. Of course, I mean food service. He's just top notch. Deserves a raise.”  
>  –Sansa Stark  
>  “1) Your brother is incorrigible. Please tell him to pay attention when he is serving. I rather thought I would find him buggering that Tyrell boy over the bar. 2) Brienne needs a pay rise. Also, I have earmarked one for Beric. He is a loyal servant of the cruise line and I think we should keep him here. Just, for the love of the Seven, keep him away from Oberyn. 3) Tell the girls at the nail salon that my manicure lasted exceptionally well this trip. I have sent an anonymous tip through the internal mail. 4) More smiling required by all. Otherwise I shall have to punish everyone until morale improves, darling, and we do not need that, do we?”  
>  –Varys  
>  “Everybody was so good, weren't they? I have no complaints whatsoever. Very much enjoyed the entire trip, absolutely marvellous. And aren't the Iron Isles super? Of course the history is terribly fascinating, and I do wish I could go into more detail about these things, but I do understand that I rattle on about everything far too much, but really, I do think this was the best trip, and everyone was so friendly and kind and warm and welcoming. Bravo, everyone! XD”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Very gud. I like the crew. The crew is my favourite thing ever! Especially piano boy he is very nise and gives me skritches and also treets when daddy isn't looking.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “Excellent, excellent, excellent. Ser Pounce (my Ferret) and I enjoyed all the staffs company. Even when he went missing for the last few days all the staff were very helpful in getting him back to me. I would not leave this ship without him.”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “I love everyone.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “THAT FUCKIN DICK PUT HIS HANDS ON SHERSHEI THE HELL Stannis you sunova- wait, I mean you bastar- WHERES THE FUCKIN BACKSPACE KEY”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “The captain was amazing. I've never had my influence go so far. I will admit, I am now power hungry.”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

  **How was your stateroom?**

> "Your pool lights need replacing!"  
>  -Margaery Tyrell  
>  “There needed to be more wine glasses.”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “I am not sure what stateroom is but I am sure it was excellent.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “The vanity was not especially sturdy. Apologies for the broken chair leg.”  
>  –Sansa Stark  
>  “Excellent all round by the boys and girls. V. impressed. Especially with the laundry team who had to deal with Cersei Bloody Lannister's pillow cases. No foundation to be found, and I did check with a magnifying glass as usual.”  
>  –Varys  
>  “Mine was lovely, thank you. The little chocolates on the pillows were a perfect touch :) Oberyn's is lovely as well, did you know there is a difference in the firmness of mattresses? Or does Oberyn have an orthopaedic one for his back?”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Very gud. I liked the room. The room was my favourite thing ever! The floor was soft and floofy and there was lots of space for my brothers and sisters.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “....Ser Pounce may have ripped a few holes in the blanket...but I stitched it up! Well...I didn't, my brother-in-laws sister, Sansa, she helped...did all of it actually. She's very good with a needle.”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “I am a very clean ship thankyou! The human in the hat takes very good care of me. So does the one with no fluff on his head.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “I never found the bathroom. SORRY YA PRICK!!1 hahaha LOLOLOL Stannis the shitstick haha”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “Stateroom? Darling, I ran the entire ship.”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

**Please indicate which, if any, aspects of your stateroom were not in working order or good repair (mark all that apply):**

> “The door didn't stay locked! Someone kept getting in without my permission and leaving candy wrappers all over my room It was like he had a skeleton key!”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “I am sorry I broke the clock because I was trying to make it go backwards in time.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “Furniture could be sturdier.”  
>  –Sansa Stark  
>  “I am very sorree for my sister Nimeeria she ate some things.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “I pissed in the trash can Sorry Gendry Make stannis clean it”  
>  –Bobby

* * *

**Regarding Dining and Shopping:**

> “And the company at the captain's table was impossibly boring — the captain should invite more interesting guests! And the wine was inferior!”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “Everything was very prompt and effiecient and affective. I liked the chefs food very much especially the desserts and especially the ones with cream but I am sorry if I made him angry because maybe he seemed a bit angry with me sometimes.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “1) Sandor has been lax this trip, mostly because of that redhaired Stark girl. Please explain that he can play with his penis on his own time. Also remind him that shagging aforementioned Stark girls upon Hot Pie's pastry prep area is UNHYGIENIC. Hot Pie was most upset, and he is a sensitive soul, poor darling. 2) Room service has been a little let down by a slip in napkin folding standards. Please remedy this. 3) Regarding merchandise, perhaps we should think about tailoring by area rather than a wider spread of goods from across Westeros/Essos? I have observed that merchandise seems to be more popular when relating to where you are driving the ship. Perhaps we could utilise a specials stand, if this cannot be implemented. Also, do you think selling booze impacts our bar profits?”  
>  –Varys  
>  “No fault whatsoever. Tell those chefs that they are brilliant, and the room service really did come in handy when I was struck down by the awful 'flu. Oberyn though, such a trooper, he gave me a hand and really, when push came to thrust, came through for me. Loved the little toast things with the pate, do you have a recipe? :D”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Very gud. I like food. Food is my favourite thing ever! I espeshully liked the food that was for daddy but I ate some when he was not looking.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “That tall muscled chef is a wonderful cook!”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “I don't know what human food tastes like but I'm sure it was great. I drink fuel and I know that tastes lovely. Gives me lots of energy.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “WHO HAS TWO THUMBS AND HATES CERSI”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “I am delicious.”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

**Entertainment and Activities:**

> “All boring and sub-par.”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “THE MAGICIANS WERE THE BEST but I would say that because I was won of them. I think Master Oberyn is the greatest magician I have ever seen, especially when he did the man in a box trick and I think even the man in the box really liked it. But I also liked the bells boys, they were really nice and really friendly, especially Gendry but it might have been Podrick I am not sure. And also the bald man who smells nice who gave me costumes was really nice as well. And I liked the boy who plays the piano, he is really clever and I liked learning about John Cage who thought that silence was the best thing though it was not very silent on this ship but that was ok!”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “1) Could you please stop Oberyn Martell corrupting small children by teaching them darkmagic. I was informed by Willas Tyrell that the ship possibly levitated, and that could be a health and safety violation. 2) *scribbled out very very hard* Please may I purchase a small boy to shape into my future protege. I know a man in Myr. 3) Again, certain individuals have let us down this cruise, much to my disappointment. We must introduce a no fraternization policy, Stannis, this is getting ridiculous. Both Cleganes, ~~at the same time, all muscled and sweating and duelling for me with their colossal penises~~ bloody Renly, Podrick and Gendry ~~Varys, no, they are far too young for you~~ , and several others. I shall send an email with the culprits and their various offenses.”  
>  –Varys  
>  “Magic is <3 I have never seen a man so talented with a wand, and when he had that adorable boy helping, oh I could have just died. And Jojen and Meera are wonderful, aren't they? Such passion, and I do love Clare de Lune so very much. I think it was, anyway, I heard strains from Oberyn's cabin as he tended to my every need while I was ill <333”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Very gud. I like piano boy best he is my favourite thing ever! Piano boys sister is also gud.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “Entertainment was fantastic! Although, Ser Pounce did not like all those dogs that hung around with the piano player and the boy in the wheelchair…”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “Oh the pretty sounds are my favourite. They play every night and it is the best times of the trip. I love being a ship.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “I MEANT SURVEIES I HATE SURVEIEs”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “Stannis was a delightful vehicle.”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

**If you reported a problem, how would you rate the manner in which it was handled?**

> “I was constantly harassed while at the pool, in the corridor, even in my own stateroom! And no one did anything to stop it!”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “It was my own problem because I wanted the ship to levitate but it didn't but I think it almost did.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “I handled this with my usual delicacy and aplomb. Stannis, darling, I know you are reading this. If someone gives you a brownie or other baked goods, I beg you, please. Please. Check with Hot Pie first. Or myself. Really, dearheart, you could have been arrested by the coastguard ~~and you are a lovely man, and I don't wish for you to have to go to prison for offences against the Maritime Acts, but if you do, I will seize your ship for the good of everything, do you hear? Davos, control your husband. Do you need some restraints? I best cross this out~~ ”  
>  –Varys  
>  “Everything is awesome, as my students would say!”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “My brother was bad but piano boy stopped him very gud handling.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “Ser Pounce went missing, but he was found later on. And then I don't know why...but when I was leaving the ship I walked past the Captain and he glared at Ser Pounce. I think he must have come across my Ferret at some point while he was missing…”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “HAHAHA THIS GUYYY. I do hate CERSI though I mean wtf”  
>  –Bobby

* * *

**About the Ship:**

> “Joffrey B can suck a D!"  
>  -Margaery Tyrell  
>  I wouldn't USE a public restroom! And there was this oaf-woman always in my face insisting on giving me information whether I wanted it or not!”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “Everything was brilliant! I did not see my mum at all and that was brilliant I just had a really good time on my own and with my new friends.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “1) Do think about the refurb of the main lounge. Jojen's piano sounds flat, and Meera is far too classy to be singing in somewhere that has crushed velour as a backdrop. Something more elegant would tempt a better standard of passenger. 2) Perhaps we should create that daily programme that I sent you as a PDF file, based upon the one that I had stolen from another cruise line. I am sure that our obviously bored staff can pop these under the cabin doors in the early hours, rather than shag the entire guest list.”  
>  –Varys  
>  “I do like this boat, very much. It has such a romantic atmosphere. We came aboard alone, bereft. Lonely, perhaps, in our ties and gowns. Weddings can have a depressive atmosphere when one is single, but some magic and sparkle and then hands are held, kisses claimed. Just perfect. Thank you!!!”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Too many staires and there is no water splash box just for dogs.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “Like I said, the human in the hat takes good care of me.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “What ship?”  
>  –Bobby

* * *

**Age:**

> “::wink:: a lady never tells!”  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “None of your business”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “27”  
>  –Sansa Stark  
>  “10”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “Never you mind”  
>  –Varys  
>  “29”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “6”  
>  –Summer  
>  “22”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “204. In ship years that is.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “56 bitch!”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “Timeless”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

  **Email:**

> “MargaeryOHara@gmail”  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “Lannistersrule@kl.com”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “magicrobin@me.com”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “lemoncakes@klu.edu”  
>  –Sansa Stark  
>  “varys@BBP.westeros / madamevaryssa@swoosh.essos”  
>  –Varys  
>  “wmartell@kingslanding.edu”  
>  –Willas Martell  
>  “dogbrain@winterfell.ws”  
>  –Summer  
>  “Tommy.SerPounceTheFerret@klu.edu”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “Stormy@shipsonly.boat”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “BobbyB@myperogative.wmail”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “THC@medicalgrade.brownie.wes”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

**Did your immediate sailing party include any children under 18?**

> “Loras acts like it sometimes but no lol”  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “Yes, me! I am 10!”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “No, though I do wonder about Loras.”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Nope. I am the youngest in my family.”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “Yes. There is one mini boat that was born 3 years ago. His brother was lost at sea.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “Cersei's new tits probably”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “ABSOLUTELY NOT. THAT WOULD BE ILLEGAL.”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

**Will you recommend a BBP vacation to a friend or relative?**

> “Omg YES totally, your lifeguards are SO cute in telling all my friends to come on board and get one, now that I've landed the hottest ;)”  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “Under sufferance if my demands for improvement are not met.”  
>  –Varys  
>  “Well...I can't exactly carry another ship on me. I'm full with humans and my babies.”  
>  –Stormy

* * *

**Will you take another BBP vacation in the next 5 years?**

> “I think I will. Do you need a permanent staff member at any point? I'm wondering if cruising might suit me better since I have made such wonderful friends here!”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “I am almost constantly taking trips. So yes, many.”  
>  –Stormy

* * *

**Ar** e **there any Crew Members who made your cruise particularly magical?**

> ":) :) :) XOXOXOXOXOXO"  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  "MASTER OBERYN!”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “The chef. Really, cannot praise him enough. Excellent attention to detail. Big fan of his lemoncakes icing.”  
>  –Sansa Stark  
>  “Hot Pie is a treasure. I particularly enjoyed feasting upon his creamy eclair and quite magnificent buns.”  
>  –Varys  
>  “Oberyn makes everything magical.”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “piano boy”  
>  –Summer  
>  “Grenn. He helped find my ferret more than any of the other crew members.”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “My human in the hat. He made the trip longer and for that I am forever grateful.”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “Fuck ur mom stannis”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “Stannis the Mannis, my ship on his ship”  
>  –Brownie

* * *

**Do you have any suggestions for how to improve our services?**

> “BAN JOFFREY THE PIG”  
>  –Margaery Tyrell  
>  “There is no hope for this operation.”  
>  –Cersei Lannister  
>  “More magic maybe I don't know! Maybe magic everywhere? It would be good to have magicians serving the breakfast and the lifeguards could be magic maybe too, and basically if all the staff could be trained in magic, I think that would be really good.”  
>  –Robin Tully-Arryn  
>  “Perhaps you could do some cruises for single people, since this boat is so wonderful and romantic and beautiful? <3”  
>  –Willas Tyrell  
>  “Plees a water splash box just for gud dogs.”  
>  –Summer  
>  “More animals!”  
>  –Tommen Baratheon  
>  “Bring back the same humans! There was so much love!”  
>  –Stormy  
>  “There really should be a policy against fraternization between guests and crew members.”  
>  –Catelyn Stark  
>  “Oh shit wait”  
>  –Bobby  
>  “Eat more brownies.”  
>  –Brownie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If you would like to tell us about your experience with The Baratheon Brothers Present, please feel free to fill out our quality feedback survey here.](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/L99MJ7M)
> 
> We hope you enjoyed your time on board. :)


End file.
